Class ■ ■ . 

Book J<ll 



NEAL NEFF'S 



NATIONAL POEMS, 



Composed by a Captain of the Line, belonging to the 54th 
0. V. V. I., of the 2d Brigade, 2d Division, 15th 
Abmy Corps, of Gen. Sherman's Army, who, 
while at the Front, in Moments of 
Idleness, wrote for his 
own Amusement. 



CINCINNATI: 

MOORE, WILSJACH & BALDWIN, Printers, 

25 WEST FOURTH STREET. 

1866, 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 
NEAL NEFF, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the South- 
ern District of Ohio. 



S# 2 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE, 

Advertisement 5 

Preface, or Egotism 7 

Introduction 11 

The Poet, or a Muse on the Muser .......... 15 

'Tis Fate to Live, 'tis Fate to Die 20 

Reverie on Fort Sumpter 21 

The Ship of State 24 

Lines to my Wife..., 26 

The Tomb of Calhoun ? 28 

Mystical Musings 31 

Memories of Childhood 31 

Thoughts on the Creation of the World 33 

A Wandering Muse 35 

The Soldier Boy , 38 

The Tear Drop .... 41 

A Song for the Day 44 

The Death of President Lincoln 46 

The Soldier's Return 60 

The Ring Dove 53 

The Georgia Campaign 68 



PAGE, 



The Ladies Fair should take the Air..,.,, „ 69 

The Grand Review...... ........... 71 

The Emblem of Liberty— the Eagle 74 

The Nation's Night \ 79 

The Nation's Day ...„, 86 

I Think of Thee and Dream..,, , 91 

Freaks of Humanity..,.,, » 93 

The Whippowil on Picket 98 

Lines on the Death of Samuel Crooks.,,,,, 100 

Haunting Thoughts on the Death of A. C. Alexander......... 102 

The Ghost of Chickamauga, a Parody on Poe's Poem of the 

Raven „ 108 

The Angel of the Depot, or what came of a Kiss 116 

He Bid Farewell to his own Right Hand 145 

Views and Thoughts on the Top of Kenesaw Mountain, Ga. 147 

A Tribute to the Memory of a Fallen Hero 152 

The Battle of the Fifteenth Army Corps near Atlanta, Ga... 154 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



FEAL NEFF'S KTew National Poems, Written while serving 
in the Volunteer Army of the United States, in the latter 
part of the War for the Union. 

BY THE AUTHOR. 

About the army and the nation, 

Not of fancy's wild creation, 

But of the truth, a muse of facts, 

Who caught the thought when muskets crack'd! 

Whose romance from the field was gleam'd, 
Beneath the shot and shell that scream'd 
Around his head amid the slain, 
When shot new ideas through his brain. 

When not on duty, and " had time," 

Threw down the sword and wrote the rhyme ; 

Was only a captain of the line, 

To fight, or write his lines in rhymes 

'Tis not a little light love ditty, 
Which to some might sound quite witty, 
But of the nation, proud and free, 
In songs of praise for liberty. 



6 



Nor prostituted is his verse 
To passion's shrine, to make men worse, 
Nor praise his follies, but condemn 
The wicked, sordid acts of men. 

Man's virtues praise, and stimulate 
His mind, to make him good and great ; 
The softer sex, sweet woman, too. 
Since both the plants together grew. 

A few bright sheaves of golden grain, 
Tinged with the crimson of the slain, 
Though tender nerves may sometimes shock, 
Are food as solid as the rock. 

"Which, like the romance from the front, 
Sometimes, perchance, is chaste, then blunt, 
Whose pictures, drawn to life, are true, 
Of the nation and her "boys in blue." 



PREFACE, OR " EGOTISM." 



In offering the following original poems to the public, 
the author feels, with an acute sensibility, the responsi- 
bility of the undertaking. For he is fully alive to the 
fact, that nothing of a depreciating character should be 
allowed to further corrupt the polite literature of the 
present age ; and that at least the sacredness of true po- 
etry should] entitle the muses to remain inviolate from 
deterioration. But if he has nothing to add, he at least 
hopes not to detract from the beauty and value of this 
branch of belles-lettres, in the humble volume you now 
hold. And notwithstanding he presents the work to the 
world with a nervous hand, feeling his incompetency to 
such high pretensions, and to do justice to the variety of 
subjects of which it treats, he at the same time feels an 
assurance that when the circumstances are known under 
which it was written, he will receive the charity of a lib- 
eral and manly criticism. The fact of his having writ- 
ten the poems while at the front, amid the scenes "which 
tried men's souls," and of his having nothing for refer- 
ence, save an old Elementary Dictionary, may plead 
something in his behalf, if, indeed, he wished to plead ; 
but for the life of him, he can not see why Neal Neff 



8 



should not have as good a right to write poetry as Byron 
or Burns, provided it be poetry, and of this the publio 
must be the judge. All men have their own peculiar 
kinds of amusement in hours of idleness, and as we, 
luckily or unluckily, happened to have a disposition 
toward poesy (when we discovered our true source of 
pleasure), found our happiest amusement among the 
muses. The first pieces were written with this view 
alone, under the following circumstances, which, by the 
way, have a smattering of romance : 

Having received a severe wound in the right leg, on 
the 13th of December, 1864, during the storming of 
Fort Macallister, Georgia, I received leave of absence 
for thirty days, and went to my home, in Ohio ; got an 
extension of leave of absence, and remained at home five 
weeks with my family. On the 9th of February, 1865, 
my wound being sufficiently healed, I started again for 
the front, arriving at Hilton Head, South Carolina, on 
the 20th of that month. Communication not being open 
to General Sherman's army, which by this time was much 
further north in its triumphant march through the Car- 
olinas, I went to the modern Babylon, city of Charleston, 
partly on my way to the command, and partly curiosity 
seeking, there to await the opening of communication. 

As the vessel rounded up*into Charleston harbor, the 
battered walls of old Fort Sumpter loomed up in the 
dim distance with peculiar interest. Four days had passed 
since the fort had fallen into our hands. This was the 
spot where the great war of the rebellion had burst 
forth ; since which time the pillars of the temple of re- 



9 



publican liberty bad trembled. Around this spot had clus- 
tered the memories of 30,000.000 of people for the last 
four years. Beyond the harbor were the battered, black- 
ened and crumbling walls of the doomed city of treason 
and destruction. These thoughts were impressive, and 
haunted me ! Two days after, I, in company with oth- 
ers, visited the fort, and while there conceived the •■ Rev- 
eries of Fort Sumpter," which I wrote immediately after 
our visit to the fort. This being my first piece, which 
being admired, flattered my vanity somewhat. Then 
came the "Ship of State;" then the "Muse on the 
Muses ; " after which I awoke up in a world of poesy. 
I hope the charm may continue, as it is the most fascina- 
ting exercise of the mind in which I ever engaged. The 
author, of course, does not deny being a great lover of 
the beautiful of nature as well as art. and an observer of 
men and things, and as he wrote his feelings at these in- 
teresting times and places, or while the impressions re- 
ceived from the eventful scenes of life and death at the 
front were yet vivid in his imagination, he is flattered 
that they will be appreciated at home. 

While he does not boast an imagination sufficiently 
prolific to build alone upon fancy, he is persuaded that 
where he has a foundation in fact, that he has a suffi- 
ciency of that element of epic art to enable him to paint 
a picture of life with living colors. " Truth is stranger 
than fiction," and there is sufficient romance investing 
the events of the war to clothe a plain history of facts 
with great interest. But when such thrilling scenes are 
described with the gloomy, yet glowing grandeur of an 
2 



10 



epic poem, their real life shines forth, and the narrative 
becomes doubly fascinating. The army is the most fa- 
vorable place to study the peculiarities of the human 
heart. Amid the stirring events and upheavings of a 
revolution, the foundation strata of the mind is sure to 
show itself upon the surface. Some men may dissemble 
their true characters for half a lifetime in the ordinary 
pursuits of life; but in times "that try men's souls,'* 
when we live an " age in a minute," and when the mem- 
ories of a lifetime crowd themselves into a moment, we 
are sure to develop the peculiarities of the mind and 
heart which lie latent at the bottom of our natures, 



INTRODUCTION. 



A FEW THOUGHTS ON THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

" Life is made up of the aggregate of little tilings." 
But the observing traveler on the path of life will see 
upon either hand, among the profusion of little things, 
many a rich and beautiful gem which, if he treasures up 
in the storehouse of memory, will in time accumulate a 
mental wealth from which he can draw the riches of true 
beauty. Poetry consists in the proper association of 
beautiful ideas, expressed in measured strains of strong 
and chaste language. This is one definition in prose, 
In poetry, another definition might run thus : 

'Tis love that lights up the life of the lay- 
Love turns the darkness of death into day ! 

But neither of these definitions are sufficiently compre- 
hensive, and whether either of them would include the 
life of true poetry, depends alone, as we conceive, upon 
the subject. Horrid ideas and horrid hate, might apply 



12 



more properly to some kinds of poetry, and yet they 
might be trie true essence of the subject. 

Acute sensibility of mind is an indispensable requi- 
site to high appreciation ! Feeling, indeed, comes nearer 
the secret than anything else. A high appreciation of 
the beautiful in nature and art, and in men and things, 
as well as a " horrid hate " of the opposite in everything, 
are necessary qualities of mind for graphic description. 
Beautiful imagery and strong figures are the strength of 
happy and forcible illustration. Life, love and senti- 
mentality constitute the principal essence of the sympa- 
thetic and sentimental kind. Wit and humor that of the 
comical. Patriotic and heroic feeling for epic poetry. 
Awe and sublimity for the grand and magnificent. While a 
vail of melancholy (thin or heavy, as the subject may re- 
quire), should be felt and thrown over the picture, to charm 
the whole with the gloomy grandeur of its lovely shading. 
Lovelies, not latent, at the bottom; sweet sensibility the 
touchstone. Deep sensibility comes next in order ; ready 
conception and language the main structure, wit the em- 
bellishment which surmounts the whole, while fancy and 
imagination, soaring at the top of the tower of poesy, 
sees the world, and appropriates from the great mass the 
gems of life, or peers deep into the darkness of death ! 
This tower, standing on the margin of the " vale of mel- 
ancholy," constitutes the embodyment of true genius for 



18 



the muses. And though these are not all. yet we appre- 
hend them to be the indispensable requisites of the suc- 
cessful musing mind. 

Now. suggests selfishness, you have told the secret, 
and mankind may all turn worshipers of the heathen 
goddess (mothers of muse in mythology), and flood the 
world with such a wave of song that your humble efforts 
may be lost in the great ocean of music. No danger 
(old miser), since it is conceded that very few minds have 
the above qualities with sufficient acuteness and intensity 
to make a figure in the poetical world. And whether 
we shall be reckoned among the many or few, is imma- 
terial. We shall be satisfied if we shall have occasion- 
ally touched that tender chord in the human heart, which 
always throbs a response to true sentiment and beauty, in 
the great and heaving bosom of the body politic, 



NEW NATIONAL POEMS. 



THE POET, OR A MUSE ON THE MUSES. 

We place this piece first, in the order of arrangement, 
on account of the subject, although it was written sev- 
eral days after the " Reverie on Fort Sunipter," and 
near St. Andrew's Depot, at Charleston harbor, South 
Carolina. 

The weary day with night is blest; 
This side o' the world has gone to rest ; 

'Tis night, and all is still 
Save one, who walks his chamber floor, 
While luring thoughts of " lyric lore 99 

His wakeful hours fill. 

Since th' muses are his passion now, 
With busy brain and thoughtful brow, 

He sits him down to write. 
Now come, thou goddess, " Mother Muse," 
Thy power into his heart infuse, 

Sweet melody indite. 



16 



! thou of mythologic lore, 
Thou who didst, in days of yore, 

Dame IsTature wake with song, 
Come, ! come his heart inspire, 
Light up his soul with holy fire ; 

Thy clarion notes prolong. 

Already he has caught the glow 
Which melts the soul in verse to flow 

With magic through the pen. 
He hastens then the world to tell 
The magic of the mighty spell 

"Which lights the poet's ken. 

But right amid the mighty spell 
He stops, for words they can not tell 

The glory of th' muse he feels. 
With wondering gaze he looks about 
For words in vain ; his light goes out — 

A chillness o'er him steals, 

On tired limbs, with aching head, 
'Mid darkness seeks his humble bed, 

To seek in sleep repose. 
His passion haunts his drowsy powers 
For many long and weary hours, 

Ere sleep his eyelids close. 



17 



He sleeps — the body, not the mind — 
The spirit still to muse inclined ; 

He sweetly sleeps, and smiles ; 
He dreams, sweet visions greet his eye, 
Glimpses of immortality 

His weary brain beguiles. 

Then mounting high, his soul doth rise 
To hear the muses of the skies. 

On fancy's wing he flies. 
"What ravish most his ears and eyes, 
Are songs and birds of Paradise — - 

Sweet birds of Paradise. 

Of birds of song which floated there, 
Most glorious note and plumage fair, 

Was Genius — this her name ; 
The song she sings doth never die 
In men of mind, nor in the sky ; 

Her song itself is fame. 

The sweetest bird which there did sing, 
Most ample heart and breast and wing, 

Was Love, divinely fair, 
She tuned the harp of silver string, 
Swept by the hand of Israel's king ; 

She sang an angel's air. 



18 

A smaller bird did sing and twit, 
Her eye and plume with fire was lit : 

On Fame she perch'd and sit, 
And when on joyous wing she flit, 
She always made a happy hit ; 

This sparkling bird was "Wit. 

Imagination, proudest bird, 

On highest keys and wings she soar'd, 

Of changeful form and plume. 
She sang of fortunes, fairies, fame ; 
Her thousand songs we can't name, 

For want of time and room. 

This happy soul then caught the notes 
Thus warbled from those silvery throats, 

His clarion goblet fills. 
This nectar draught he then did drink, 
But saved a part of it for ink, 

Their pinions took for quills. 

Then with these trophies hastes away, 
E'en down to earth ere break of day ; 

Down to that humble bed 
Where, sweetly sleeping, smiling lay 
That almost lifeless, worthless clay ; 

Then quickens heart and head. 



10 



Up jumps the poet, all on fire — 
He's found the living lute or lyre — 

A song of life he sings ; 
He strikes harp of living strings, 
Which Love and Wit and Genius brings ; 

From this his music springs. 

"With thrilling thoughts he hastes away 
To greet the gleam of rising day, 

Now looming up in the east, 
First sent by Sol's soft, silv'ry stream 
Of light, and the glorious golden gleam 

His swelling soul to feast. 

There's music in the birds and bowers, 
And sparkling dewdrops on the flowers— 

The poet sings all day. 
A harp himself of many strings, 
From out of which his genius brings 

The life-like luring lay. 

Sees music in the mom and mountain, 
Flowing from the fervid fountain 

Of mystic musing mind; 
Then call it not a lightly thing, 
If he doth muse and write and sing, 

For poetry is divine. 



20 



His soul illumed by heavenly light, 
He sings a land of beauty, bright, 

By saints and angels trod. 
Sings of man, the musing creature ; 
Sings himself clear up through nature, 

Eight up to nature's God. 

He sings and sings, both night and day— 
A holy thing the living lay — 

He'll sing himself away ; 
And when on earth he leaves his clay, 
He'll sing again, we humbly pray, 

He'll sing in endless day. 



'TIS FATE TO LIVE. 'TIS FATE TO DIE, 

Twice twenty times the checkered years 
Their checkered seasons round have rolled, 

Since light and life and doubts and fears 
First waked to sense this time-tossed soul. 

What memories of this checker'd life 

In retrospective views uploom, 
Of hope and joy, woe, war and strife, 

And what shall be life's future doom? 

c 



21 



3 T is fate to live, 'tis fate to die, 
'T is fate which forces us along ; 

Drives life to death, the low and high, 
The "iust and wicked, right or wrong. 



REVERIE OX EORT SOIPTER. 

The circumstances under which this poem was written 
are given in the preface. This being our first piece, 
the others will follow in the order in which they were 
written. This piece rent the vail through which 

We long in vain had tried to peer, 
And felt the Hoi}' of Holies near. 

The reader will please excuse the egotism : for we hold 
that all men have sufficient poetry in their mental com- 
position to appreciate and love it. when they properly 
understand it. There are few good readers of prose, 
and fewer yet of poetry. 

On Sumpter's batter d walls we stood, 
In contemplative and pensive mood, 
While anon the briny waves surround, 
And lash her feet with a surging sound. 

The dear old flag is waving o'er 
The ramparts, as in days of yore ; 



■ 



22 



While white-winged seagulls sweeping round, 
Make us feel this is holy ground. 

What memories of her checkered past 
Crowd around us thick and fast; 
The memories of her varied fate, 
Cans' d by malignant treason's hate. 

First when Anderson's noble band, 

'Mid starving want, implored the land ; 

The Star of the West, in mercy's train, 

" With bread for the hungry, plow'd th' main.' 

Prom Moultrie's port the smoke upcurl'd, 
She at our flag a missile hurl'd, 
And the thunder of that gun afar 
Sounded tocsin of civil war. 

Then treason, Oh ! the dreadful tale, 
Storm'd these walls with iron hail ; 
Our flag, which ne'er before had fell, 
Was lowered to these imps of hell. 

The goddess of liberty hid her face, 

For this mournful, deep disgrace ; 

The heart of the nation throbb'd and thrill'd, 

With horror, alarm and vengeance filled. 

Four long years of a dreadful war 

Hath scourg'd this land, both near and far ; 



28 



This land accurst by sin and slave, 

"Which sought through hate a nation's grave. 

But slavery, with her whips and chains, 
To curse mankind, no more remains; 
The grave she sought for freedom's corse, 
She fills herself, with mute remorse. 

The stern decree of God, through man, 
Has broken the rod, has burst the ban 
"Which gloomed our sky, disgraced the age, 
And dimm'd the glory of history's page. 

From henceforth now, the march of mind 
Shall not be crush'd by bigots blind 
To justice and the rights of man, 
Secured to us through G-od's great plan. 

Through rivers of blood we arrive at last, 
Through judgments untold for sins of the past, 
To liberty's shrine, which truly shall be 
" The land of the brave and the home of the 
free." 



24 



THE SHIP OF STATE 

Was written about the 10th of March, 1865, while lying 
in camp near St. Andrew's Depot, South Carolina. The 
subject was conceived by the memory of the first two 
verses, which are included in the quotation marks, 
which we had noticed in a newspaper in January, 1861:. 
The ship had not yet reached the shore, but we saw her 
coming, and finished the poem. The points in the 
piece were, of course, conceived by reflecting on the 
history of the war, and the difficulties through which 
the government passed in her efforts to sustain national 
life during the dark days of the rebellion. 

" In eighteen hundred sixty-one 
"We thought the country was undone ; 
In eighteen hundred sixty-two 
The nation had all it could do. 

In eighteen hundred sixty-three 

The Ship of State was still at sea; 

In eighteen hundred sixty-four 

The good ship proudly neared the shore." 

In eighteen hundred sixty-five 

She in the harbor did arrive, 

And anchored safe from treason's hate ; 

We hail our noble Ship of State. 



25 



She'd sailed for fourscore years and more, 
On every sea, from shore to shore; 
Her ensign to the breeze unfurl'd, 
Was light and hope to all the world. 

Whilst riding proudly on the main, 
A storm was gathering o'er the plain ; 
From off' the sunny South it came, 
With dark, portentious, frightful mein. 

Another danger — unwise, 'tis true, 
To traitors turned part of her crew — 
The cause of mutiny so bold, 
"Was human freight within the hold. 

The storm came on, 'mid darkness howl'd, 
In traitor hands the rigging foul'd ; 
The lightnings flashed, the thunders roared, 
'Gainst friend and foe was drawn the sword. 

O'er mountain waves the ship did reel, 
On deck was heard the clash of steel, 
And blind to justice, woe or weal, 
The traitors tried to part her keel. 

Raged battle and storm in wild tumult, 
And doubtful was the great result ; 
The captain, strong through heaven's power, 
Stood by the wheel, controlled the hour. 
3 



26 



Bring up from the hold that freight, he said, 

And up came Sambo, Cuff and ]STed ; 
How strange, indeed, to human ken, 
This sable freight then turned to men. 

Then bravely through the bloody fight 
They proved their claim to manhood's right, 
To liberty, which was their cry, 
Since for the ship they dared to die. 

Thence turned the tide of storm and battle, 
Of clashing steel and thunder's rattle ; 
Kind heaven still controls her fate, 
Our noble, glorious Ship of State. 



LINES TO MY WIFE, 

This little poem was written March 15, 1865. We were 
about to write a letter, and ran it off into poetry. We 
fancy it will be appreciated by soldiers who were in 
the service many months, and even years, some of 
them, without seeing their good wives at home. 

Eliza, my own, my dearest wife, 
The partner of lot and life, 
Be not surprised if I should yearn 
For muses, and a poet turn. 



27 



The partner of my youthful joys, 
The mother of my little boys, 
Will surely in her heart excuse 
The weakness of this little muse. 

If love and sentiment and wit 
In happy verse can make a hit, 
To thee I'll sing my humble songs, 
To her to whom my heart belongs. 

Then may good health and spirits bless, 
Thy shadow and beauty ne'er grow less, 
And beauty of thy queenly ways 
Grace thy household all thy days. 

Since bread and meat you have a store, 
And friends to greet you at the door ; 
With wood and water a good supply, 
And home to keep you warm and dry. 

Since G-od has gave you cheerfulness, 
My hearth and home with joy to bless, 
I pray that you may live content, 
Nor for my absence long lament. 

Virtue, prudence, and gratitude 
To Him from whom is all our good, 
Are graces which I hope combine 
To adorn those lives of thine and mine. 



28 



Then when this cruel war " is o'er, 
This dire rebellion is no more, 
The Union and the laws restored, 
Til quit the field and sheath my sword. 

When staid the bloody hand of war, 
And rising again the nation's star 
Of hope and joy to human ken, 
Of peace on earth, good will to men. 

When white-winged peace shall hover o'er, 
Just like she did in days of yore, 
This year, I hope and believe 't is true, 
I will return to the boys and you. 



THE TOMB OF CALHOUN, 

Thoughts suggested while wandering amid the ruins and 
dismal destruction of the city of Charleston, South 
Carolina, where, near the center of St. Michael's old 
moidering churchyard is the tomb of Calhoun; in- 
cluding a soliloquy at his grave. 

On a still Sabbath morning we wandered alone, 
Faraway among strangers, away from our home, 
Down the dark dismal streets of the " City of 
doom," 

Where the glory of Babylon lies in the tomb. 



29 



And dismal destruction, like a funeral pall, 
Hangs in just judgment o'er the fire-black' d wall, 
While even the air, fumed with pestilence foul, 
Bears the wing of the bat and the hoot of the 
owl. 

My wandering steps led, near the hour of noon, 
Down to an old churchyard, all shrouded in 
gloom, 

Where, in the center of which, is an old dark 
tomb, 

And in the slab that covers it is engraved Cal- 
houn. 

Once thy proud genius, in the councils of State, 
Mingled in beauty with the good and the great ; 
But, not like the genius of Webster and Clay, 
Thy glory, like thy dust, is fading away. 

What's this that hath torn up the earth 'round 
thy head, 

And crush'd the gravestones of more innocent 
dead ? 

'T was the shafts of destruction by a nation thus 
sent 

To crush the foul treason Calhoun did invent. 

Thy mistaken genius hath kindled the flame 
Which consumed the glory of thy once proud 
name ; 



30 



Thy genius shone brightly once, covered with 
fame ; 

Now shrouded, like thy dust, with gloom and with 
shame. 

The shell that came howling in its fury so wild, 
Which there hath exhumed the poor bones of a 
- child, 

In this cruel carnage of war and of strife, 
Was sent by the nation to save her own life. 

How many white bones are thus bleaching to-day, 
So far from their homes and their kindred away, 
In this heaven-cursed land of slavery and lust, 
Which boasted the genius of Calhoun and his 
dust. 

From thy sad fate we learn a deep, lasting lesson, 
Since thy genius hath been a curse, not a blessing : 
That genius, though bright, must be righteous 
and just, 

Or its glory thus fade and die, like thy dust. 

Says charity, stop now, nor traduce thus his 
name, 

Since slavery hath curs' d both his genius and 
fame, 

For posterity will read of the darkness and gloom, 
Of the dismal destruction which enshroudeth his 
tomb. 



31 



MYSTICAL MUSINGS. 

Nearly every word of the same line commencing with the 
same letter, combining, at the same time, measure, 
rythm, sense, sentiment and a moral. 

'Mid mystical musings o'er the mind's mighty 
maze. 

Puzzled and perplexed, yet its powers we praise ; 
Through trials and troubles, through triumph of 
thought, 

To trustingly turn to the truth we our thoughts. 

From forums, from fountains, from frown and 
from favor, 

Great garners of good, the good gratefully gather, 
While th' weak, wicked, worthless with wonder 
ask why ? 

Duties doom'd to distortion, do dwindle and die. 



MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 

Addressed to Brother Abe, from St. Andrew s Depot, 
March 20, 1865. 

I remember, Abe, when we were boys, 

Far happier then than kings, 
For childhood's joys, without alloys, 

Its true contentment brings. 



82 



Wheg down below the orchard where, 

Near by the orchard hill. 
We'd gather there bright flowers rare. 

And play in the little rill. 

You remember, too. the little brook 

"We waded, craw-fish hunting, 
"When the minnow took the little hook, 

Both hearts and fish went jumping. 

When Sis, and Mary, Dan, I and you, 

As Patrick said, " Ale srnaleingy ' 
And how we'd do with the old canoe, 

Down where we went a sailing. 

When one cold Sabbath, in sliding trim, 

Slipped oft 1 to th' creek a skating; 
But the ice was thin and we broke in, 

And then went home a shaking. 

The bottom field with acres broad, 

I know to mind you bring. 
Where we plowed and hoed, and sweat and grow' d 

In the sunny days of spring. 

But now, dear Abe, we are bald and gray, 

Have wives and children too, 
Who are just as gay, when at their play. 

As then were I and you. 



33 



The mem'ries of sweet childhood days 

Sweet mystic musings bring 
Of youth's happy ways, in lute-like lays, 

We dream and think and sing. 



THOUGHTS ON THE CREATION OF THE WORLD. 

Six thousand years or more ago, 

By sacred history it is said, 
Vain man and all things here below 

Were by the great Creator made. 

A six million years and more 

Have rolled their seasons round since then, 
Says mystic geologic lore, 

Were made all things, the world and men. 

The deep-laid layers of earth's strata, 
Says proud, erring, reasoning man, 

Earth's own history gives the data 
Of when the world and all began. 

Of matter not a single mote, 
To the ocean, the air, the earth, 

Of wealth \s been added not a groat 
Since creation's glorious birth. 
4 



34 



A thousand years are but a day 

To Him who made this world of ours ; 

Then chase thy doubts, vain man, away, 
'Nor let them curse thy few short hours. 

And if to God a million years 

Of time are but a single day, 
Should that excite thy doubts and fears, 

To drearily tread thy gloomy way ? 

If not a groat of matter since 

Her birth's been added to her wealth, 

This one great fact should then convince, 
She did not thus create herself. 

Or if six million years 'twould take 
To thus create a single pound, 

How long, friend, would it take to make 
The mighty worlds old Sol surround ? 



m 



35 



A WANDERING MUSE TO CHASE THE " BLUES." 

It was now the 20th of March. Just one month had 
elapsed since we landed at Hilton Head. Communi- 
cation to General Sherman's lines was not yet open, 
and time began to drag very heavily in camp. 

We'll sing to th' spirit of the muse, 
To pleasure bring or chase the " blues," 
Since pleasure of the lasting kind 
Depends upon the frame of mind ; 
Then to the lovely muse we bring 
Our sweet but lowly offering; 
Instead of sadness, we will sing, 
And to the winds our troubles fling. 

Is there not music in the breeze, 
And beauty in these proud pine trees, 
And in this hanging moss, which floats 
Pendant from these mighty oaks, 
Which half conceals their giant arms 
With beautiful romantic charms, 
Thus forming festoons, garlands grand, 
In this bright, sunny southern land ? 

There is beauty in the azure sky, 
Love and music in the soft blue eye, 
And beauty in the violet too, 
And wit in the eye of darker hue. 



36 



There *s music in the birds and bowers, 
Both love and nmsic in the flowers, 
And swiftly fly the lively hours, 
If we but use the musing powers, 

How foolish, then, to sit and bode, 
Or feel the cares of life a load, 
Since all depends upon the mind, 
To trouble or amusement find ; 
Then do not be of that dull kind, 
To beauty and duty always blind : 
Says reason, then I must agree, it 
All is lovely if we only see it. 

Then since we have the power to choose 

Either to take or that refuse. 

This to condemn or that excuse, 

To trouble muse, or chase the " blues," 

We surely should select the kind 

Of employment which improves th' mind, 

So that we may not fall behind 

In this wise age of fast mankind. 

For this is the most wise, fast age 
That ever passed upon the stage 
Of time ; upon all History's page, 
Ever sang by poet, saint or sage. 



37 



The barbarism of ages past 
Is dying now (the curse of caste), 
Beneath the tread of armies vast 
Dissolves, and slavery dies at last. 

"We are merging from the thrall and gloom 
"Which buried genius in the tomb 
Of ignorance ; but freedom's boon 
Now turns midnight to brighter noon ; 
Thus age on age of time rolls on, 
A brighter age begins to dawn ; 
"When is the gloom of prejudice gone 
The battle's fought, the victory won. 

'Mid dread commotion, war and strife, 
We now attain a higher life ; 
The poor and weak we'll not enslave, 
And bury justice in the grave ; 
Just because he is black or bright, 
Has wool for hair, red, brown or white, 
And thus to torture right to might, 
Because we can, or did through spite. 
Our muse thus turned ('t was incidental), 
Thus to end so sentimental. 



38 



THE SOLDIER BOY, 

On a bright summer day, in the year sixty-one, 
With marshal array, and the fife and the drum, 
While secessionists say, " The Union's undone/' 

A soldier boy enlisted. 
He staid not for the cries of his sisters and mother, 
IsTor the deep-drawn sighs of father and brother, 
'Nov the tear-dinini'd eyes and sobs of another ; 

All, all he thus resisted. 

His grandsire had told how he fought in his 
youth, 

And although so old, was yet proud of that truth ; 
And the boy's heart grew bold; do you wonder, 
forsooth, 

That the boy grew bold and brave ? 
That beautiful flag of broad stripes and bright 
stars, 

By traitors made mad, by the gods of such wars, 
Was displaced by a rag, call'd the u Stars and the 
bars," 

In the land of the master and slave. 

Just look at him there, in his new suit of blue, 
So young and so fair, yet so manly and true, 
With his soldierly air, and bright musket too, 
All, all to fight for the Union. 



39 



He stands up and fights for the land of his birth, 
For liberty's rights, and for liberty's worth, 
And to save from the blights of dark slavery's 
curse 

The land of his birth and the Union. 

With light heart and gay, to the tune of the 
banner, 

He marches away, thro' the wood, o'er the manor, 
Where in butternut gray, and in threatening 
manner, 

Stand a host of traitor rebels. 
With a firm, proud tread he marches thus for- 
ward, 

And heeds not the lead which o'er him is show- 
er d; 

On the field of the dead he scorns the name 
coward, 

And his firm, quick step he doubles. 

His bright musket tells on the "Reb" skirmish- 
er's breast 

As he staggered and fell, his mean treason and 
crest ; 

And forward, with a yell, he now charges the 
rest, 

His comrades and he for the Union. 
O'er many a hard field his musket he bore, 



40 



'Mid the clashing of steel and the cannon s loud 
roar ; 

"When wounded, he reel'd, and then lay in his 
gore, 

'Mong dying and dead for the Union. 

To the ambulance then, on " stretchers " he 's 
taken, 

And by ambulance men he's jostled and shaken 
To the hospital, when he feels quite forsaken, 
As long wait his wounds to be dressed. 
When at length they are dress'd, all bandaged and 
bound, 

He feels himself bless' d that he's not under 
ground, 

Tho' little his rest, and tho' painful his wound, 
He talks and jokes with the rest. 

At length he gets well, and to battle again, 
Where the ball and the shell doth howl o'er the 
slain, 

Which in fury doth swell like storms o'er the 
plain, 

He fights again for the Union. 
He fought well and bravely for liberty's worth, 
'Gainst the power of slavery, which brought trea- 
son forth, 



41 



And scorned the low knavery of its friends at the 
North ; 

He fought for freedom and Union. 

Yes, he scorn'd the mean praise, the voice of the 
prater, 

Whose sympathies raised the hopes of the traitor, 
And thus dug the graves, more numerous and 
greater, 

For boys who fought for the Union. 
His three years are over, but he veterans and goes 
From friends and that other, toward the land of 
his foes ; 

And when the war is over, and ended its woes, 

He returns with freedom and Union, 
To greet the smiles of his sisters and brother, 
And receive the blessings of his father and 
mother, 

And to ta share the life and love of that other. 



THE TEAR DROP, 

"Written onboard the government transport " Champion," 
en route to Wilmington. North Carolina. 

'Tis not the wit in the bright black eye, 
Which starts the tear or heaves the sigh ; 
; Tis not the lofty marble brow, 
For not of beauty Fm thinking now. 



42 



'Tis not the beauty of thy face. 
Kbr beauty of thy queenly grace. 
Xor of those rosy lips which greet. 
Disclosing rows of pearls complete 
Within thy radiant, smiling lips, 
With sweeter nectar than which sips 
The bee from out the flower's cone. 
To fill his rows of honeycomb. 
'Tis not of this. I do declare. 
Although so lovely and so fair ; 
*Tis not of beauty I would sing, 
But of sweet love, a holier thing. 

Yes, 'tis of high and holy thought, 
With more than "fairy beauty fraught: 
It is of the immortal mind, 
Where love and virtue always find 
Affection true. The bliss of life 
Doth bless the husband and his wife. 

I'm thinking of that early morn 
Thou must have felt so lone and lorn, 
While twinkled yet the morning star, 
I th'' third time left my home for war. 

I'm thinking of those heavy sobs 
Which woke me up with nature's throb 
I'm thinking of that heavy sigrh, 



43 



And of that lovely, tear-dimmed eye, 

When furlough'd days had pass'd well nigh; 

That morn we parted, you and I. 

Oh! I could not, could not say " good-by 

I could not, and I'll tell thee why. 

Thy tear-drop fell upon my cheek, 

Which chok'd me so I could not speak. 

Oh ! I fancy that I feel it yet, 
It sometimes feels so cool and wet, 
When mind runs back to that sad morn, 
It feels like life, so glowing warm. 

That farewell kiss and tear-drop too, 
That morn which parted I and you ; 
That tear-drop Til ne'er fain forget, 
It lingers on my cheek here yet, 
And sinking down into my heart, 
Bids kindred tear-drops rise and start. 

That scalding tear-drop on my cheek, 
Its burning mem'ry makes me weep. 

Says one, " Tear-drops in song are plenty ; 
Who cares if there are more than twenty ? 
Nor if sweet tear-drops, true to nature, 
Fall like rain-drops on the paper." 



44 



A SONG FOR THE DAY, THE 14TH OF APRIL, 1885, 

This poem was partly written at Wilmington, North Car- 
olina, and finished on board the " Crescent City," on 
the way to Morehead City. The day was celebrated 
in honor of the re-raising of the flag on Fort Sunip- 
ter. In the midst of the rejoicing, we received the 
news of the fall of Lee. 

The glory of this glorious day 
Awakes to life the muse's lay ; 
The thunder of that hundredth gun 
Awakes the land to peace begun. 

The trembling zephyrs waft the sound 
Of freedom's music floating round ; 
"While thundering cannon shake the ground. 
Through reverberating hills resound. 

This self-same day, four years agone, 
The nation's heart, with gloom forlorn, 
Is throbbing for the flag which falls 
To treason's hate o'er Sumpter's walls, 

Oh ! the misery, death and human woe 
That since we've seen, four years ago, 
Since that glorious ensign fell, 
The sage or poet ne'er can tell. 



45 



That self-same flag, four years ago, 
To treason's rag was brought so low ; 
By the self-same hands 'twas raised so oft, 
O'er Sumpter again is reared aloft. 

Thrice happy be this happy day, 
For the thunder of the guns away, 
O'er the broad land from sea to sea, 
Thunder the fate and fall of Lee. 

The lightning flashes o'er the wires, 
Exulting news of freedom's fires, 
Kindling and bursting into flame, 
To freedom, glory — to treason, shame. 

The glory on the breezes swells, 
Music, lightning and thunder tells, 
A great and glorious peace begun,; 
How slavery fought, but freedom won. 

A thousand chiming bells peel forth 
To sound the praise of freedom's worth ; 
Those peeling bells, without remorse, 
Are tolling, too, for slavery's corse. 

Millions of souls are praising God, 
Who stays the strokes of Justice's rod ; 



46 



Through sacrifice atonement 's made, 
And the bloody hand of war is stayed. 

And looking up through future ages. 
By poets sung, and penn'd by sages, 
"We read the history, sing the lay, 
Whose words shall praise this happy day. 

Hundreds of millions of unborn men, 
Up through the vista of poet's ken, 
Self-governed millions their voices raise, 
And in freedom's glory sing its praise. 



THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, 

Written at Goldsboro', North Carolina, on receipt of the 
news of this tragic event. What a strange coincidence 
of time ! It will be remembered that it was on Good 
Friday, and on the 14th of April. 

Of him who stood foremost in this mighty age, 
Whose goodness is praised by the saint and the 
sage, 

While his great-hearted kindness the poet doth 
sing, 

Like the widow's two mites, our tribute we bring. 



47 



A long night of darkness is passing away, 
Athwart the broad land comes the glorious day 
Of peace and of joy and of glory and gladness, 
But the brightness of morning is turned into 
sadness. 

Yes, the joy of the nation is turned into gloom, 
As true freedom's flowers just burst into bloom ; 
But his virtues, like flowers, doth cast their per- 
fume, 

And like a halo of glory they light up his tomb. 

Mysterious Providence, inscrutable ways, 
The victim selected* on the altar he lays, 
The altar of sacrifice, freedom's oblation, 
"Whose blood thus atones for the sins of the na- 
tion. 

On the same day the Saviour of mankind was 
slain 

For doom'd fallen man, his pardon to obtain ; 
The ball of the assassin enters his brain, 
A martyr he falls in the morning of fame. 

How strange the coincidence, the time when he 
falls, 

On the day over Sumpter's battle-scarred walls 
Was both lowered and raised the flag of the free, 
Laid low in the morning of his glory should be. 



48 



That citadel home of magnanimous thought, 
With a nation's best interest of humanity fraught, 
By a murderous missile which crashes his brain, 
With his heroes of freedom, he lies with the slain. 

Yes, he falls with his heroes, our chief magistrate, 
Whose giant mind piloted the great ship of state 
Through the battle and storm of the long dark 
night, 

To the glorious morning, so peaceful and bright. 

Says the soldier and patriot, whose bosom doth 
swell, 

Is there not some " chosen curse " which justice 
can tell, 

To punish the murderer whose garments doth 
smell 

Like the fumes of the pit, so red hot from hell. 

Yes, his name shall be curs' d in all future ages, 
Through the tablets of time, on history's pages, 
When gone to his place, the black soul of this 
Booth, 

When millions unborn shall read the sad truth. 

Since the days of the Saviour, no greater than he 
Graced the great halls of State, so noble and free, 
So kind yet so firm, and such powers of soul, 
To seek for the nation the good of the whole. 



49 



His mantle of charity, like a halo which glows, 
Melting the prejudice in the hearts of his foes, 
And when vengeance is his, this mantle he 
throws 

O'er the land of the South, to heal their sad woes. 

How strange and how sad — Oh ! it seems like a 
dream, 

That his blood should thus swell the deep crim- 
son stream 

Which flow'd like a river, through the land to 
the sea, 

Through the land of the brave, now the home of 
the free. 

Yes, he died with his heroes, his country to save, 
And the high hopes of mankind from liberty's 
grave, 

That the soil be not curs'd by the blood of the 
slave, 

Now the land of the free and the home of the 
brave. 



50 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 

Written on the march from Raleigh, North Carolina, to 
Petersbug, Virginia, and, as we then thought, on our 
way home. 

Perchance through the measure of muse you may 
learn 

Of the end of the war and the soldier's return ; 
With victory he's coming from the plains of the 
South, 

To his friends of the Union in the glorious North. 

But language will fail to portray the meeting 
Of dear ones at home, of the glorious greeting 
He 's thought of so long on fields far away, 
Where armies confronted in deadly array. 

Perhaps his blue coat is all tatter'd and torn, 
His musket or saber all batter'd and worn ; 
Perhaps his shoulders and limbs and feet may be 
sore, 

But his heart beats as fast and as warm as before. 

Now hunt quick your dark holes, you copperhead 
snakes, 

In your treason-curs'd mouths, your forked- 
tongues take, 



♦ 



51 



That treason-split tongue, and venom-spitting 
mouth, 

For the soldier is coming red hot from the South, 

Copperheads, butternuts, all traitors take heed, 
For he 's been killing snakes of a much better 
breed ; 

He is sworn to the service of old Uncle Sam ; 
His blood is red hot, and he don ? t care a 

On his shoulder he bears the musket he bore 
O'er the fields of the dead, 'mid the cannon's 
loud roar, 

Which was sprinkled with lead and reddened with 
gore, 

But his heart beats as fast and as warm as before. 

He comes 'neath the flag of broad stripes and 

bright stars ; 
He 's crushed treason's rag, called the stars and 

the bars ; 

That beautiful ensign, the flag of the free, 
Now waves o'er the land, from the North to the 
sea. 

Perhaps that beneath that old blue blouse he 
wears, 

Some marks of the price of liberty he bears; 



52 

Like stars on his person are glorious scars, 
Glorious trophies he won in liberty's wars. 

The scenes he pass'd through have not made him 
kind, 

For he drops a sad tear for the soldier behind, 
"Whose wife and whose little ones are looking so 

Looking for a father who lies far away. 

As he marches thus homeward his thoughts are 
of joys 

When he meets his poor wife, his girls or his 
boys 

Or of one he's been thinking with hopes that 
were bright, 

Through the battle and storm of the long dark 
night. 

Perhaps that old blouse was once matted with 
gore, 

From the service it 's seen all tatter' d and tore, 

And his body itself is batter'd and wore, 

But his heart is still throbbing pit-patta as before. 

Yes, gaily he's coming, though weary and wore, 
For the burden of hardships and battle he bore, 
While thinking of soon seeing his friends once 
more, 

His heart beats faster and warmer than before. 



53 



THE RING DOVE. 

This poem was also written on the grand march from 
Raleigh to Petersburg. The present of a pet ring- 
dove had been made by a father to the author's better 
half, some two years before the war, and the singularly 
sad habits of this peculiar bird, together with the cir- 
cumstances of the war, suggested the subject. 

And ere the column stopp'd to rest, 
The heart and mind, by muses blest, 
Had wove a lay of epic love ; 
Then resting, wrote the " Cooing Dove." 

Our old ringdove, up in his cage, 
"Whose downy coat is brown' d with age, 
Who, like some prophet, saint or sage, 

Goes cooing every day. 
Up near the stairs or chamber door, 
Who, like some saintly lord of yore, 
Goes cooing, cooing evermore, 

His plaintive, mournful lay. 

He came from out the sylvan bower. 
With plaintive song of mournful power, 
One sad and lonely summer hour, 

Some five years back or more ; 
Was from his mate by tempest driven, 
Then by a father's hand was given, 



54 



Who soon exchanged this earth for heaven, 
To sing forevermore. 

What makes thee, dovey, sad, forlorn ? 

It is not for a grain of corn, 

To coo and coo, and mourn and mourn ? 

Come, dovey, can't you stop? 
'Tis not for food ; thy little cup 
With broken grains is well fill'd up, 
And of water many a sup 

To fill thy little crop, 

Why sing so sadly, gentle dove, 
Can not thy measure lively move ? 
Perhaps of disappointed love, 

Or of thy long lost mate. 
Thy notes, like some prophetic lore, 
Which tell of things that come before, 
Thus cooing, cooing evermore, 

They sound like dismal fate. 

For five long years thy mournful song 
Goes cooing, cooing all day long. 
! dovey, don't you think it wrong 

To mourn so and be sad ? 
Is it thoughts of thy long lost mate, 
Revolving through thy little pate, 
Which dismal bodings do create, 

And almost make us mad? 



55 



Or is it for heroic dead, 

In storms of iron, hail and lead, 

For country who their blooddid shed, 

Thou mournest every clay ? 
Is this the theme thou'st mourning o'er ; 
Fields of the dead and human gore, 
In prophetic vision seen before, 

To tune thy dirge-like lay? 

Is it for those who far away 

From home and friends in death do lay, 

Who on the bloody battle day 

AYere numbered with the slain ? 
Yes, 'tis for that, we fainly trow, 
For those he mourns, we know it now, 
For rising up he makes a bow, 

And coos and coos again. 

For the poor wife and little ones, 
Who in their humble, saddened homes 
A husband and a father mourns, 

Doth tune thy mournful strain ? 
Is it for the wife and orphan too, 
Which makes thee thus so strangely do ? 
Thy mournful song to coo and coo ? 

He bows, and coos again. 

O ! dovey, stop thy plaintive art, 
Xor make sad tears to rise and start; 



56 



Thy mournful notes most break my heart, 

And almost burst my head. 
Come, sing a song of life and gladness, 
And stop thy lornful lay of sadness, 
~Nov drive my whirling brain to madness, 
Like ghosts of hauating dead ! 

Is it alone that lives were lost, 

Just tor the price which freedom cost ? 

His sagely, knowing head he tost, 

Denying with disdain. 
Is it because the truest blood 
Did mingle in one mighty flood, 
In sacrifice for country's good? 

He bows, and coos again. 

Treason will soon be dead and gone, 
The mind of man is marching on ; 
A brighter age begins to dawn ; 

This truth the sage should know. 
Traitors now have had their warning, 
Rising now the glorious morning, 
Freedom's goddess thus adorning; 

Come, dovey, can't you crow ? 

Are fallen now the nation's foes, 
And ended now the country's woes, 
Since freedom's day-star upward rose ? 
Up on his perch he goes ! 



57 



Come, my prophet, saint or dove, 
Come sing a song of life or love, 
How passing strange, ye gods, by Jove ! 
He spreads his wings and crows ! 

Strange bird! like saintly lords of yore, 
With such prophetic, sagely lore, 
To tell of things that come before, 

So ghostly evermore ! 
Thus cooing, bowing, mourning o'er, 
Fields of the dead, and human gore, 
JSTor yet for freedom's price deplore, 

Cooing forevermore. 

A soldier's homeward march pursuing, 
In fancy heard the ring dove cooing ; 
His mind then courted muses wooing, 

The mystic strain of yore. 
"While marching t'ward his home once more, 
The music lifts each foot before, 
His musing mind went roaming o'er 

The fields of mystic lore. 

Don't start, my friends, the tale is true, 
The soldiers have their doves who coo, 
The winners now go home to woo, 

To see their doves again ; 
With poetic ear and mystic view 

6 



58 



They see and hear the dovey's coo, 
Doth straightway then the muses woo, 
A lovely mystic strain. 

All the dovey's cooing, cooing, 
Soldier boys pursuing, sueing, 
Going home a wooing, wooing, 

Just like the days of yore. 
All the world so strangely doing, 
Cooing, pursuing, wooing, sueing, 
IsTor the soldier ever rueing 

The mystic musing lore. 



THE GEORGIA CAMPAIGN. 

A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM. 

'T was dark ! it was the nation's night 
"When through dark clouds the lurid light 
Sometimes begloom'd and sometimes bright, 

The lurid lights were gleaming, 
"When Gog and Magog met in fight, 
One with his slavish, hateful spite, 
The other for man's noblest right, 

And many then were dreaming. 



59 



We dream' d — it was the first May day, 
"When in yore was wont the Queen of May 
To deck her brow with garlands gay, 

A May in sixty-four. 
From Northern Alabama's hills, 
From off* her plains where rip'ling rills 
The Tennessee's broad bosom fills, 

A living stream did pour. 

A column long and strong in blue, 
To freedom and the Union true, 
Did thus their forward march pursue 

Through hills and rills and fountains ; 
"With rolling drums and fifes a screaming, 
A hundred thousand muskets gleaming, 
With thoughts of queens and glory dreaming, 

Toward Lookout's frowning mountain. 

Round Lookout's frowning battlement, 
Past Mission Ridge, the column bent, 
All with one purpose still intent, 

Intent to drive the foe. 
O'er Chickamauga's bloody ground, 
Where now dead silence reigns profound, 
In little heaps all scattered 'round, 

Are hearts and heads laid low. 

From thence, and through Snake-river Gap, 
Where the Alleghenies overlap, 



60 



Whose tow' ring hights are sometimes cap't 
"With clouds that shroud their heads. 

The muskets then began to crack, 

Bush-whackers then began to whack ; 

Our lead and iron drove them back ; 
They went, were sent, and fled. 

At Eesacca now the scene enlarges, 
As iron, lead and flame discharges ; 
We storm'd their lines with gallant charges, 

And sent them on again. 
We press'd them hard, by column marching, 
And heeded not the sun, though scorching : 
O'er Georgia's hills the column arching, 

O'er hill and rill and plain. 

They next confronted us at Dallas, 

With their usual hateful malice ; 

With too much lead they lost their ballast, 

Our lines they charged this time ; 
And like blind horses rush in battle, 
Amid the din of thunder's rattle, 
They charged our lines and fell like cattle, 

And fell with broken line. 

It was a grand and awful sight ; 
We received first upon our right, 
With ball and shell and flashes bright, 
'T was like a thunder storm. 



61 



Came sweeping on, the battle's din, 
Like leaden hail on woofs of tin, 
Che-whack one took us on the shin, 
'T was getting rather warm. 

Our dream thus far had been so fair, 
Now turns to horror and night-mare ! 
It was so horrid bloody there — 

The pains, the groans, the blood, 
And the surgeon's dissecting bench, 
Were bones and limbs from bodies wrenched, 
Both day and night with blood was drench'd, 

With the living, flowing flood. 

Amid the stench and swarming flies 
That ere the wounded soldier dies, 
Fill his mouth and glassy eyes, 

'Mid pains and groans and shrieking, 
And many colored lizards leaping, 
And many thousand creepers creeping, 
Day and night their vigils keeping, 

Peeping, never sleeping ! 

And as the wounded soldier lies, 
When courting sleep he vainly tries, 
With burning brain and sleepless eyes, 

The smell, the sounds, the sights, 
All night long the guns are popping, 



62 



And the soldiers dropping, dropping, 
JSTor day nor night were ever stopping ; 
Oh ! the long and horrid nights ! 

Round Kenesaw's old bloody brow 
The storm and battle rages now, 
Where many a hero's head did bow 

Around this bloody mountain, 
Where heaven's lightnings and the thunder 
Yied with battle's raging under, 
"With deadly missiles without number, 

And clouds with hearts for fountains ! 

And rain and hail and blood did pour, 
'Mid heaven's wail and cannon's roar, 
So many sank to rise no more ; 

Oh ! humanity deplore ! 
For thirty thousand spirits fled 
From th' marble head of sinking dead, 
Till plains and hills and rills were red, 

Were red with human gore ! 

Beyond the power of words to tell, 

The pains, the sounds, the sights, the smell, 

As horrors on each other swell'd 

O'er humanity, and fell ! 
Horror of horrors on earth foretold, 
The sum of horrors from ages old, 



63 



Expressed the best in one word told, 
That awful word of hell ! 

Our chief waked up then and look'd about, 
And with his soldiers, brave and stout, 
March'd to the right, and flank' d them out, 

From out behind the mountain. 
Their retreating columns then fell back 
Across the bloody K~ic-a-jack, 
Where trunks and limbs and bones did crack, 

And opened still the fountain. 

O'er th' Chattahoochee's bank to bank, 
On pontoons went the file and rank, 
With gun and horse and saber's clank, 

Beyond the flowing flood, 
Which like old Jordan's waves did roll 
'Twixt Israel's chieftain and his goal. 
The last stream cross'd by many a soul, 

Who for freedom shed his blood. 

Around Atlanta storms now rattle, 
'Mid many a pitch'd and bloody battle, 
Again, like horses and blind cattle, 

They charged and charged and fell, 
And thirty thousand spirits more 
Fled from those fields of blood and gore, 
And returned to battle nevermore, 

While cannon sound their knell. 



64 

It was a bloody, dark campaign, 

With mud, and blood, and hail, and rain, 

!N"or stayed the flood of clouds nor slain, 

ifor stayed them day nor night ; 
But for a hundred days and more 
The leaden hail and blood did pour, 
And like Collodon's field of gore, 

So raged the bloody fight. 

Again, one dark and gloomy night, 
Without e'en a gleam of lurid light, 
Went marching, flanking to the right, 

Before " old Hood " should know it ; 
When stumbling, grumbling, sleeping, walking, 
Like spectral, midnight ghosts a stalking, 
The column, with obstructions balking, 

O'er streams like " coons to go it." 

And ere the rebel chief's aware, 
While dancing with the rebel " fair," 
He's struck with horror, or nightmare. 

He at Jonesboro was flanked, 
Where we arrived and " beat his time," 
And established there our chosen line, 
And straightway then did dig and mine, 
And mined a " ditch and bank." 

Three more days of bloody fighting, 
Of battle's rattle and livid lightning, 



65 



While many Rebs the dust were biting, 

Then ceased the blood to pour. 
They left those fields of blood and gore, 
As they had done from fields before, 
Many to fight and fly no more, 
To fight and fly no more. 

Hark ! What thunders at dead midnight, 
With rumbling sounds and livid light, 
O'er Atlanta looms a column bright; 

'Twas burning ammunition ! 
The loyal soldiers then did feel, 
The nation's glorious coming weal, 
As through dark clouds the lights reveal 

The toil's and blood's fruition, 

Our nightmare's horrors then did turn 
To pleasant dreams, as you may learn, 
Like Moses' cloud, the light did burn, 

The darkness to dispel. 
Directed by the higher powers, 
Atlanta and her plains were ours, 
Dispelling thus the gloomy hours, 

When proud Atlanta fell ! 

Another fitful, dreamy cloud, 
For the moment did the mind enshroud, 
As the Rebel chieftain, vain and proud, 
" Did cut our cracker-line." 



66 



At Altoona, when he made a dash, 
We heard the thunder, saw the flash, 
His charging columns met a crash, 
With recoil' d and broken line. 

While threatening thus our rear to fight, 
Pillars of clouds loom up most bright ; 
More southern conquests did invite, 

Loom'd up toward the coast. 
And then this loyal, conquering host, 
Which was a joyful nation's boast, 
March' d thus clear through to Georgia's coast. 

It was a world's great boast. 

Those columns long and strong, in blue, 

To freedom and the Union true, 

Did again their forward march pursue, 

O'er hill and rill and plain. 
The eagle spread his wings, a screaming, 
Freedom's glorious lights were gleaming, 
Again of queens and glory dreaming, 

We march' d to the briny main. 

Through to old ocean's surging strand, 
Whose wave doth lave the seething sand ; 
This living stream, deep, blue and grand, 

In freedom's might did pour. 
Where pendant moss from giant oak& 
gloomy grandeur lightly floats, 



67 



And where romantic sylvan notes, 
Blend with ocean's distant roar. 

Beyond the Ogeechee's ample fold, 
"Whose brackish waves to ocean roll, 
That ere we reach the final goal, 

A fort looms up and frowns. 
Hard by the river's tide-swelled breast, 
She rears her proud, defiant crest, 
Walls, works and ditches in strength th' best, 

With guns and ports all round. 

McAllister was her boastful name, 
She curs' d this name of better fame, 
From thence doom'd to gloom and shame, 

For torpedoes mined the ground. 
The Second Division, Fifteenth Corps, 
Which often did such work before. 
Was sent to make her cannon roar. 

Our line drew up all 'round. 

Then, ere the bugle's forward blast, 
Were glances pale toward comrades cast; 
All knew it was the very last 

Of many that must fall. 
But hungry soldiers want " hard-tack," 
Was breaking then old treason's back ; 
" Forward," for freedom or the wrack, 

Or meet a cannon ball. 



68 



The line now moves to storm and fight , 
" Steady, the center and the right ; " 
'Now from the ports are flashes bright, 

And soldiers now are dropping. 
Forward, brave boys, "we 're going in," 
'Mid ball and shell, and battle's din, 
"When they plugg'd us in the other shin, 

And waked us up a hopping. 

Our varied wakeful dream was true, 

The gloom, the blood, the lights, clear through 5 

The parapet with Tanks was blue, 

Our flags and blood was streaming, 
And ere was hushed the battle's sound, 
On parapet and ditch and grouud, 
Were dying heroes all around, 

But freedom's lights were gleaming. 

Hark, hark ! what happy shouts we hear ? 
'Tis a joyful, long, exultant cheer, 
For many miles to the left and rear, 

The romantic welkin's ring. 
Like lightning leaps from corps to corps, 
And blends with ocean's distant roar, 
While white-wing' d peace toward the east flits 
o'er, 

And freedom's angels sing. 



69 



On lightning's wings, from main to main, 
The happy land takes up the strain, 
"The Anaconda" is cut in twain, 

Since Gomorrow's proud gates fell. 
The nation's nightmare's horrid spell 
Was broken through the crumbling shell ; 
Let earth and ocean's praises swell, 

For, thro' Heaven, 'twas done so well. 



THEiLADIESJFAUL SHOULD TAKE THE AIR, 

I would I^were a bonnie lass, 

With black and curly hair ; 
I'd romp and play upon the grass, 

And take the pleasant air. 

With lofty brow and bright black eye, 

And round, ruddy cheek . 
It seems to me I'd never sigh, 

'Twould feel so very sweet. 

Or some young and blue-eyed girl, 

With soft complexion fair ; 
My auburn hair in waves should curl ; 

I know I'd take the air. 



/ 



TO 



The soft and balmy, pleasant air 
Should tinge my blooming cheek, 

Should wave my auburn, wavy hair : 
I know 'twould feel so sweet. 

Then if I was a fair young lady, 

With all a lady's charms, 
Of the boys I'd keep a little shady, 

Nor expose my breast and arms. 

IsTor too much expose my dainty feet — 
Charms half conceal'd most fair; 

But the air should kiss my neck and cheek . 
I'd take the pleasant air. 

Then if I were a lady matron, 

With husband tried and true, 
To damsels I would be a pattern, 

And teach them how to do. 

I too should take the pleasant air, 

Its glowing life would greet; 
It should wave my smooth or wavy hair, 

And kiss my brow and cheek. 

Yes, I should admire nature's charms, 
Though chaste should be my dress, 

For 'tis her mystic nature warms 
The poet or poetess. 



71 



And she who does true genius feel, 
With grace and prudence blest, 

Knows that her charms but half reveal'd, 
Do charm and please the best. 

If I were one of nature's fair. 

With dainty hands and feet, 
I would surely take pure nature's air 5 

I know it would be Sweet, 

Yes, the ladies fair should take the air, 

And greet its living heat ; 
'Twould tinge the cheek and wave the hair, 

In health and beauty sweet. 



THE GRAND REVIEW, 

Held at Washington, on the 23d and 24th days of May, 
1865, is conceded by all to have been the grandest 
military display that the world ever witnessed ; at least 
in modern times. It will be recollected by those who 
witnessed it, that on either side of the street, for sev- 
eral squares, the seats, one above the other (theatri- 
cally arranged), were crowded with ladies and gentle- 
men, who, with cheers and handkerchiefs, flags, flowers 
and wreaths, waved a welcome to the war-worn vete- 



72 



rans, who (returning) had so gallantly re-established 
their country's Kberty. Nor will the soldier ever for- 
get the evidences of gratitude emblazoned upon ban- 
ners, with mottoes which greeted him at every step, as 
he marched amid the waves of this grand rolling 
stream, at company front. 

'Tis of Columbia's grand review, 
And of her sons in freedom's blue, 
We indite and write a verse or two, 

With freedom's halo o'er. 
Those veteran columns, tried and true, 
For freedom fought the war clear through, 
Did pass their chiefs in grand review, 

This living stream did pour. 

This living stream, strong, free and grand, 

The living heroes of the land, 

The chosen spared of heaven's hand, 

'Neath freedom's light went streaming ; 
For two whole days this mighty throng, 
In surging waves did roll along, 
'Mid music, cheers and shout and song, 

With victory's halo beaming. 

With rolling drums and fifes a screaming, 
Hundreds of thousands of muskets gleaming, 
Tens of thousands of streamers streaming, 
Streamed all around and o'er us, 



73 



Through the channel of living banks, 
That on each side the surging ranks, 
Were grateful greetings, smiles and thanks, 
Like glory seem'd before us. 

And while the surging waves did roll, 

The halo seemed in victory's goal 

To enchant and thrill the raptur'd soul, 

'Mid music and cheers and song. 
Prom th' living banks to th' living stream, 
Fell flowers and laurels on the gleam, 
And like Elysian fairy dream, 

On the gleam was borne along. 

And as the waves thus onward roll'd, 
Liberty's mottoes, greeting, told 
Their sentiments in burnish'd gold, 

While wreath and flowers did fall. 
And many mottoes welcom'd, prais'd, 
And told of fields in bloody days ; 
But of all around and o'er was raised, 

Atlanta highest of all. 

Old Sol himself in glory seem'd 
To send his brightest golden gleam, 
To burnish the living banks and stream 

With his brightest, burning beam. 
But the noblest, brightest thought of all, 
While wreaths and palms and flowers did fall, 



74 



Was from her treason and her thrall, 
The nation saved, redeem'd. 

The living chiefs of war and State, 
The heroes of Columbia's great, 
"With reviewing grandeur seem'd elate, 

Stood with enraptured gaze. 
Upon the rolling, surging waves, 
Which anon they call Columbia's braves, 
Because their blood and valor saves 

Liberty from her grave. 

And as the current stream'd and gleam'd, 
The eagle spread his wings and scream'd, 
'Mid freedom's glorious halo seem'd 

An angel, noble, tall, 
With great broad brow and smiling face, 
And stately, noble, bowing grace, 
From reviewing grandeur's higher place 

His smiles o'er the stream did fall. 



THE EMBLEM OF LIBERTY, THE EAGLE, ON THE 
4TH DAY OF JULY, 1865, 

All hail ! yes, all hail to this glorious day, 
Let the ladies and lords be joyful and gay, 
And sages and poets their tributes repay ; 
Tis the birthday of the nation. 



75 



All hail ! to this glorious fourth of July, 
When our unfledged eagle began first to fly ; 
Still proudly he's sailing and rising so high, 
On this day of coronation. 

Nurs'd in the beginning in liberty's nest, 
On the cloud-capp'd summit of Plymouth's proud 
crest, 

The emblem of freedom and of heaven's behest, 

The emblem of liberty given. 
Fittest emblem indeed, by freedom enshrined, 
The pride of Columbia and hope of mankind, 
For the marching of armies and marching oj 
mind, 

Proudest bird of earth and of heaven. 

Though he was hatched by the sun, he carried a 
load, 

While like a curse in the form of Milton's black 
toad, 

With huge whip and spurs, thus his body be- 
strode, 

Which avarice of lucre did bring. 
Too strong and too mighty to notice the thing 
Which bestrode o'er his neck his back or his 
wing, 

Like an adder, anon tried to poison and sting, 
As it clung to his southern wing. 



76 



And although he carried this black, foulsonie 
load, 

On his neck, or his back, or his wing as it rode, 
Like adder, anon tried to poison and goad, 

His flight was still upward and strong. 
Both ample his muscle, his breast and his wing, 
And plumage to shield him from goading or sting. 
With a stru^e convulsive, to earth he did fling 

This curse, this disgrace and this wrong. 

ISo longer by slavery, the curse, is he ridden, 
By the power of freedom to dismount was 
bidden, 

As it falls to the earth it is buried and hidden, 

i'rom his neck, his back or his wing. 
Then let freedom's daughters be happy and sing' 
And patriots and statesmen their tributes should 
bring, 

With a grand, mighty struggle he threw off the 
foul thing, 
From off of the tip of his wing. 

Then soar like the sun as he thus onward rolls, 
Or perch among the stars, on the flag's azure 
folds, 

Emblazoned with silver and burnish'd with gold, 

'Mong thirty-four bright, shining stars. 
Most glorious ensign, the red, white and blue ; 



77 



The white for its purity, with the azure so true, 
And the reel for the blood which was thus shed 
all through. 
The nation, in liberty's wars. 

! ye lands of the despot be happy and sing, 
He shall waft to your shores, by the tip of his 
wing, 

The joy and the glory which freedom doth bring, 

This glorious bird, born to-day. 
O'er ocean his self-growing power shall roll ; 
His light shall illumine the mind and the soul, 
The waftings of freedom in liberty's goal, 

As it rolls o'er the earth on its way. 

Yes, the spirit of liberty, born on this day, 
Shall roll around the earth in liberty's sway, 
Nor stop for the threat'nings of war's dread array, 

Till man his true sphere shall have found. 
And the autocrat's strength from his head shall 
be shorn 

By power the eagle's unclipp'd pinions hath borne, 
And the crown and scepter from kings shall be 
torn, 

From their thrones o'er the earth all around. 

Europe's muttering thunders rumbling around, 
Are presaging a time when the crumbling crown, 



78 



From the autocrat's head shall come tumbling 
down. 

Since freedom our goddess did bring. 
"With freedom o'er earth the world's welkin shall 
ring. 

With praises, the scepter from the hand of the 
king 

Shall be swept like lightning, by the tip of his 
wing ; 

By a stroke from the tip of his wing. 

Soar on in thy splendor, proud bird of the sun, 
The pride of the world, in Columbia begun, 
Since slavery hath fought and true freedom hath 
won, 

Thy ^Egis to mankind is given, 
For a shield and buckler, a staff or a rod, 
For virtue's approval, like Jupiter's nod, » 
In time of probation to help man to God ; 

To him, to God and his heaven. 

Then, since in His providence it is thus to be, 
Take the evergreen branches of liberty's tree 
In thy talons and beak, and soar o'er the sea, 

And drop them o'er lands now forlorn ; 
And the car of progression shall then onward 
roll, 

T'ward the halo of light in liberty's goal, 



79 

Expanding and illuming the heart and the soul, 
And hastening millennium's morn. 

Eow the red hand of war is whitened and gone, 
And the world's highest age is beginning to 
dawn, 

While the geni, mankind, is soaring upward and 
on, 

Man's status in freedom to bring. 
This day the wide world should be happy and 
sing, 

As heaven's wide welkin with rejoicings doth 
ring 

With praises to Him of the universe King, 
Wafted by the tip of his wing. 



THE NATION'S NIGHT AND THE NATION'S DAY, 

Was written on board the steamer " Argonaut," between 
Louisville, Kentucky, and the mouth of White river, 
Arkansas. The poem commences in the beginning of 
our political troubles, the dusky eve of the nation's 
night, when the nation yet dreamed of a better day • 
then through some of the principal events of the war ; 
recognizes and illustrates the dealings of Providence 
in the national sacrifice, securing the nation's redemp- 
tion from the thraldom of slavery and treason ; bring- 



80 



ing in the glorious morning of peace and true free- 
dom ; and then closes with " The Nation's Day," with 
a glance at the future greatness of America, and the 
effects of the re-establishment of the Union, self-gov- 
ernment and true liberty upon the world. 

Morpheus had wrapp'd us in the slumbers of 
night. 

And dreaming of a nation we lay ; 
Our visions of the night were both dismal and 
bright, 

Ere loom'd up the dawning of day ; 
But the gloom of midnight seem' d dispelPd by 
the light 
And beaming of liberty's ray. 

The blackness of darkness, suspended on high, 

The political zenith enshrouds, 
£Tor faint glimmering stars, nor moon in the sky, 

Dare gleam through the lowering clouds ; 
And traitors were proud, for they thought it a 
shroud 

For a nation that soon had to die. 

The sword of justice then hung o'er a land 

"Which was curs'd by the blood of the slave, 
"While wreaking for judgment was war's bloody 
hand, 

To bury the curse iu the grave ; 



81 



And at judgment's right hand the loyal did stand, 
Their country and freedom to save. 

Came storms of red lightning, with wars' pealing 
thunder, 

As the night waxed woeful and waire, 
And the civilized world with awe-stricken won- 
der, 

Stood aghast at the blood of the slain, 
At th' bolts and the thunder, for great were the 
number, 

Lay ghastly and pale o'er the plain. 

The sword of His vengeance was wreaking with 
. blood, 

With blood that was mixed with the slave; 
They had bartered their blood to slavery, their 
god, 

And their soil to the tyrant and knave; 
By the steed of our God their land was then trod, 
Whose hoofs dug hospitable graves. 

It seemed like an earthquake, or elements' crash 

Of the nation — her woe and her weal; 
For naught but His thunders and steel's dreadful 
clash, 

Could persuade them or teach them to feel : 



82 



We saw through the flash His vengeance thus 
dash, 

'Mid thunders and clashing of steel. 

Nor the glimmering ray of pale moon or star, 
But dismal the night's hooting owl, 

And pelicans and lions, in lands from afar, 
Then set up their hooting and growl, 

In lands from afar, at our grim dogs of war, 
Which did bark, and thunder and howl. 

On the plains of Armageddon, in secession's 
night, 

Were confronted in battle array, 
Both Gog and Magog, who were stripp'd for the 
fight, 

To decide with the sword the great day, 
And the one in their might had Liberty's right, 
For a torch, had Liberty's ray. 

The others, deceived by the demon of night, 

To the altar of slavery were led, 
By their god of the night to believe it was right, 

Their slave-tainted blood thus to shed ; 
And the world in affright stood appall'd at the 
sight, 

At slavery-curs'd corpses when dead. 



83 



Great was the sacrifice, the blood of the na- 
tion, 

Both truest and purest the blood, 
Which was shed on the altar for freedom's obla- 
tion, 

To satisfy vengeance of God ; 
In the hands of their God they were Vengeance's 
rod, 

Were broken for sins of the nation. 

Full three hundred battle-fields gory and red, 

All red with the blood of the slain, 
And three hundred thousand brave warriors lay 
dead, 

All dead, stretch'd their bones o'er the plain. 
From the death-stricken head their spirits had 
fled, 

Nor returned e'er to battle again. 

Their land, a Golgotha of skulls and of bones, 

Where the curse, by Satan devised, 
Had torn little hearts from their parents and 
homes, 

Despising their tears and their cries, 
Where the lizards make homes 'neath the skull's 
arching domes, 
And are peeping from sockets of eyes. 



84 



A land where dark memories grow hideous and 
wild, 

Love of lust and lucre grew bold, 
And dark souls to dark deeds by Satan beguil'd, 

Whose horrors can never be told. 
The father sold his own child with a devilish 
smile ; 

Hoarded his own blood in the gold. 

The hand and the head of the oppressor are cold, 

Or hot in the regions of hell ! 
The man-stealer's soul, by the prophets foretold, 

E'en curs' d is the citadel shell : 
In that cranium rolls the horrors of old, 

Ere the sound of the dark demon's knell. 

And their cities, like Sodoms and G-omorrahs of 
old, 

On the banks of the sea then called Dead, 
Black columns of smoke and of flame upward 
rolPd, 

O'er the markets of blood they had bred. 
And their streets ran red with the blood which 
was shed, 

Where mothers from babes had been sold. 

Isow dismal destruction hangs over black walls, 

Or meets at the corners of streets ; 
The shroud of His vengeance, like a funeral pall. 



85 



Crimes' merited punishment meets , 
Where the spoiler doth prowl, 'mong the bats and 
the owls, 

Their vigils with hootings to keep. 

Destruction had bred in their hot, humid homes. 

And still echoes a lingering wail 
From tortures then inflicted on innocent ones, 

Ere justice and judgment prevailed. 
Now serpents twine among bones, or coil within 
domes 

That had handPd the " cat- ? o-nine tails." 

Four dark, dismal journeys in chaos round the 
sun 

Had traveled the night-stricken world ; 
O'er a thousand dark nights seem'd centered in 
one, 

While the flames of His judgment upcuii'd, 
When light seem'd to come, and His judgments 
were done ; 

When the bolts of His wrath were thus hurFd. 

Those bolts from His lightning, from judgments 
on high, 

Have cleft the political clouds; 
While stars shine brightly in the political sky, 

Are dispelling the pall which enshrouds; 



And slavery did die with a shriek and a sigh, 
And traitors no longer were proud. 

Other stars in the army of freedom do shine, 
As the light of the morning now nears ; 

Now a sight most sublime and light to mankind, 
A bright constellation appears ; 

For the beacons of time to illumine the mind, 
And drive away liberty's fears. 



THE NATION'S DAY. 

" A change comes over the spirit of our dream 

The illum'ing of liberty's ray 
Is caught from the glory of morning's first gleam 

As looms up the dawning of day, 
Dispelling the darkness and gloom of the night, 
And illum'in he world with liberty's light. 

The glorious morning now looms up the east, 

Again comes the funeral pall, 
"When the last death-struggles of slavery, the 
beast, 

Caused the star of the morning to fall ; 
Then again He arose with glory more bright, 
The hero of freedom, in immortal light. 



87 



On the wings of the morning the white bird of 
peace 

Comes flitting with joy o'er the earth ; 
The sunbeams of liberty light up the east, 

This morning of freedom's true birth ; 
The eagle soars higher, he had thrown off a load, 
if or longer by slavery, the curse, is he rode. 

Now the white wings of peace are hovering o'er, 

To bring prosperity again. 
The great ship of state has again reached the 
shore, 

From the perils of War's storming main ; 
She over the waves of disunion no more 
Shall reel, 'mid the thunders of war's dreadful 
roar. 

The monuments of war rear'd high in the land, 

On Columbia's southern shore ; 
Like ghosts of the dead they in memory stand, 

The goblins of treason before 
The specters of darkness, the soul to affright, 
The sons of the day from secession's night. 

The Union of our fathers, cemented with blood, 

Shall never be broken again, 
Uor waves of secession roll war's crimson flood 

Down rivers of blood to the main; 



88 



But the pillar of union through ages shall stand. 
The light-house of liberty for every land. 

Then look pp, Columbia, be joyful and sing, 
Throw your weeds of mourning away; 

Freedom and union their blessings shall bring 
To the children of liberty's day. 

Your valleys and mountains shall bloom like the 
rose, 

And drown with delight humanity's woes. 

Ye erring sister States, come join in the strain 

Of song, of praise with the nation ; 
You will yet praise the day when the blood of 
your slain 
Did purchase your land's salvation ; 
Of the war itself, since in the hands of God 
'Twas turned to a blessing in correction's rod. 

For the curse which had been thy country's great 
bane 

Of her greatness — the woe of her weal, 
Had still with his poison and ruin remained, 

If he had not his treason revealed, 
And the dragon of slavery had not been slain, 
Had he not always tried to ruin and reign. 



89 



All ye sisters of Union and homes of the 
brave, 

Come join in the joy of the morning, 
The chain which had bound you to the yoke of the 
. slave, * 

A new brightest link is adorning. 
The chain is amended, Jehovah hath spoken, 
Never more shall the constitution be broken. 

With a country more prosperous than ever before 

Beneath the sun had existed ; 
How great shall she be when by war never more 

Shall the Union and laws be resisted, 
Since slavery, the bane of her greatness before, 
Shall curse, rule, ruin and poison no more. 

And ye crown'd-headed despots, rulers, who said 
That man could not govern himself, 

To Columbia shall bow r the crown-ridden head 
To man, the merciless elf: 

For the light of the morning, freedom's true birth, 

Is liberty's adorning and light of the earth. 

Columbia, Columbia, the light of the earth, 

The rising of liberty's day, 
The power and glory of liberty's worth, 

Driving darkness and despots away ; 
The glorious morning in Columbia begun, 
Now rising to the zenith is liberty's sun. 



90 



Up through the vista of a thousand bright years, 
On the white- winged bird of the dream 

We are carried, and still vision appears 
In its truth, more glorious is seen ; 

And freedom and union still bloom'd like the rose, 

Long dead and forgotten were liberty's foes. 

Five hundred millions of the children of men, 

Still chanted Columbia's lay 
Of praise, in this vision of poetic ken, 

Near the noon of liberty's day, 
The pages of history with th' loyal did shine, 
Their deeds were engraven on the tablets of time. 

Perch'd on the wings of the white bird of peace, 

The glorious prospect reviewing; 
" Man ran to and fro, and knowledge increased/' 

Nor God-given rights were eschewing; 
And all found plenty, and homes in the land 
Wrought by the power of liberty's wand. 

The Union, like a carpet spread out 'neath the sun, 
Nor fading her rich blending hues, 

But the glory of all seeni'd center'd in one, 
The blending of red, w T hite and blues, 

And turrets and towers, and cities and gold, 

And wealth of her millions could never be told. 

And civilization had o'erleaped the mountain, 
To the shores of the wilds in the West, 



91 



Thus drinking the nectar from liberty's fountain, 

Her Hundreds of millions were blest ; 
Columbia's car of progression had rolPd 
Through her lands of plenty, and freedom, and 
gold. 

When ages on ages of time had roll'd up, 
Thus up through the future's bright way, 

The world drank the nectar of Liberty's cup, 
Did their songs of tribute repay. 

Liberty and Union, the hope of mankind, 

Found their defense in the wealth of the mind. 

And the valleys, and vales, and hamlets, and hills? 

Flowers and fruits, and rich golden grain, 
And like liquid silver ran rivers and rills, 

Laving the lowlands o'er the vast plain ; 
Both wise and happy were the children of men, 
For the young child stood on the cocatrice den ! 



I THINK OF THEE AND DREAM, 

Written for a young lieutenant, while sailing down the 
Ohio river, on our way to Little Rock, Arkansas. 

While from my native State I float. 

Adown the grand blue stream, 
While on the gallant old steamboat, 

I think of thee and dream. 



92 



Amid the sound of rushing waters, 

And of the hissing steam, 
Around thee, dear, fond memory loiters; 

I think of thee and dream. 

And as o'er Southern lands I rove, 
'Mid war's dread, dazzling gleam, 

I think of thee, it must be, love, 
I think of thee and dream. 

When, through the din of battle's strife, 

I hear the wounded scream, 
"When blood and battle red runs rife, 

I think of thee and dream. 

Thy image still before my heart, 

A morning star doth seem, 
To cheer through life this wandering bark ; 

I think of thee and dream. 

And as through life I float along, 

Adown life's crooked stream, 
I too must sing a lover's song ; 

I think of thee and dream. 

My heart, my heart, is broke by thee, 

But half a heart doth seem ; 
Oh ! must it ever only be, 

To think of thee and dream ? 



93 



And wilt thou keep that other part ? 

'Twill not be long, I ween, 
Until with thee and all my heart, 

We'll love, and think, and dream. 



FREAKS OF HUMANITY, 

OR PICTURES OF BEAUTY AND HORROR — A FACT. 

On our way up White river, Arkansas, some 150 miles 
above its mouth, we landed one Sabbath afternoon ; 
and during our perambulations on shore, in the even- 
ing, found the unfortunate victim who, with the cir- 
cumstances, form the subject for the narrative of this 
poem. We had seen many horrid sights during the 
war, but to our mind and feelings, this case eclipsed, 
in horror, anything we had before seen or heard of. 
He had once been a Union soldier, and having been 
separated, by some means, from his command, was 
taken by the "Chivalry" and treated as narrated. 
Then crawling from the river to an old, open shed, was 
suffered to lie there more than three years, near a house 
inhabited by secesh (demons of hell, rather than hu- 
man beings), and kept alive by the stealth of a poor, 
old decrepid slave woman, the only one in that part of 
" the shades of Egypt " who seemed to have feelings of 
humanity. We took him to Duvall's Bluff, to the 
hospital, but it is very doubtful that he survived. It 



94 



is all true, and could be substantiated by at least 500 
witnesses, who will attest the truth of every word of it, 
should this meet their scrutiny. 

The sun shone brightly in a clear, Southern sky, 
Not the fringe of a cloud to be seen ; 

While ten gallant steamers each other did vie 
To roll up the waves of the stream. 

Like a flock of huge swans, so graceful and 
white, 

Both their wings, and plumage, and breast, 
As they chased each other through the sparkling 
light 

That foam'd o'er the waves' rolling crest. 

Thus up wild White river, in Arkansas State, 

A deep and meandering stream, 
Where the huge silver-fish doth chase his huge 
mate, 

And jumping, do flash in the gleam. 

The sun past meridian's sky in the west, 
'Twas P. M., this sweet, Sabbath day, 
When we landed to strengthen the weary with 
rest, 

And prepare a cook'd meal on the way. 

A romantic site of a village on shore ; 
The village to war had been doom'd; 



m 

On the site had been many homes once before, 
Now black, crumbling chimneys uploom'd. 

The boughs of the cypress and live oak did wave, 

O'er the graves of the bless'd loyal dead ; 
The vine of the passion flower crept o'er his 
grave, 

'Twin'd wreathes o'er his passionless head. 

For a battle -had swept o'er the romantic plain, 
Grim gunboats awoke up the vales ; 

And naught but the ruins and graves of the slain 
Were left thus to tell the sad tale. 

Save one, part of a man, had crawl'd from the 
river, 

To a most wretched old, open shed; 
A sight met the view which made loyal nerves 
shiver ; 

The grave had been robb'd of her dead ! 

One house, should have been the abode of man- 
kind, 

At least where his kindred should dwell ; 
But the inmates, to feeling and sympathy blind, 
Had robb'd pandemonium's hell ! 

There lay the poor victim, all haggard, forlorn, 
As nude as the day he was born, 



96 



Save a filthy old quilt wound around his lank 
loin 

'Nor hiding his wrack-ridden form. 

Beneath it protruded two raw, shrunken stumps 

Of legs that were off near the feet ; 
While through skin-covered ribs his heart almost 
jumped, 

As in madness of torture it beat, 

"Oh! my poor, wretched man, how came you 

thus here ? 
How long in this horror remain' d ? " 
Half rising, with frenzy, and the eye's madden' d 

leer, 

He then groaned and fell back again ! 

Oh! fallen humanity, how cruel thou art; 

Is there no one to pity and save ? 
Yes, a poor old slave had done her poor part — 

Kept alive by the stealth of a slave. 

Great God, Oh ! how horrid his history appears, 
Which the slave then tried to deliver ; 

She said it had been now more than three years 
Since he crawl'd thus up from the river. 

'Twas not in the glory of battle he fell, 
Nor this thought the soldier to cheer ; 



97 



So strangely and horridly the slave did tell, 
And she told it with evident fear. 

That when war had maddened the " Chivalry's" 
brain 

(Chivalry of the devil and knave), 
They had tied him to a log in "White river's main, 
And sent him adrift on the wave. 

That it was in the midst of" the cold winter time," 
The beginning of secession's night, 

His legs were all frozen, and cut by the twine, 
Which caused thus this horrible sight. 

And that at first his mind was sprightly and sane, 

For the light of a scholar he had ; 
When his tortures at length affected his brain, 

Then at times he was raving and mad. 

When, horrors on horrors! blood and nerves 
quiver, 

When frenzy distracted his brain ; 
On his blood-raw stumps he would run to the 
river, 

Then come crawling and bleeding again ! 

When prejudice, malice and hatred were rife, 
FilPd all the Confederate air, 
9 



98 



Already they had threatened the slave's poor life, 
And more she could tell if she dare ! 

Just think of his thoughts, while* yet he could 
think, 

Thus starving, in tortures to die ; 
'Twas more than enough to make the man sink, 
Or reason to flutter and fly. 

Now go bring the stretchers, of soldiers' romance, 
]STow raise him up gently, my boys. 

We see in true pictures of life at a glance, 
Humanity's freaks and alloys. 



THE WHIPPOWIL ON PICKET. 

Thou sad and lonely, quaintly bird, 
Thy song of sadness faintly heard, 
Breathes loneliness in every word ; 

And when near, and loud, and shrill, 
Thy notes like piercing arrows dart 
Their shafts into the lonely heart, 
With such melancholy, mournful art, 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

'Tis at Atlanta, in the night, 

The moon and stars, pale twinkling light, 



99 



Their quaint, sad musings do invite, 

While the chilly dews distill ; 
On picket's outmost vidette post 
Stands the sentry like a ghost; 
He seems in contemplation lost : 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

Another bloody battle day, 
With dusky eve has pass'd away, 
And soldiers pale in death do lay, 

O'er the valley, plain and hill, 
Stands on the margin of a vale, 
Of fallen warriors, still and pale, 
Anon repeated comes the wail, 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

He thinks of home, and friends and all, 
Of the little ones, so cute and small, 
Of a mothers warning, " might befall ! " 

He did not consult her will. 
He thinks of good things then he had, 
When he thus left, a truant lad, 
And his gloomy thoughts grow still more s 

Comes whippowil, w^hippowil. 

He thinks, too, of a tear-dimm'd eye, 
Of azure hue or ebony dye, 
He left with many a deep-drawn sigh, 
And his own the tear-drops fill ; 



100 



He thinks of her, when in eve of day 
In pleasant walks their feet did stray 
Adown the meadow's sweet pathway, 
Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

When on some sweet and balmy night, 
Beneath the pale moon's silvery light, 
With youth and beautj-'s prospects bright, 

On the bank murmuring rill, 
They used to sit, and chat, and sing, 
While time did flit on joyful wing, 
But those heartfelt notes their sadness bring, 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

When heartstrings tuned to sweetest note, 
Where love and beauty once did float, 
The heaving, leaping, light lifeboat, 

On the pond above the mill ; 
And of those happy, fleeting hours, 
Beneath those eyes' bewitching powers, 
Again the mental cloud now lowers, 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

Come stop, poor bird, thy lonely strain, 
The soldier now would gladty fain 
Not hear thy plaintive song again, 

For it broods a coming ill ; 
But the tired soldier's wish is vain, 



101 



And still It comes athwart the plain, 
From o'er the beds of sleeping slain, 
Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

The large pale moon grows full and round, 
Quick, gleams;a flash ! with piercing sound ? 
Oh ! he receives a mortal wound ! 

" Oh ! my God !" he says, "I'm kill'd ! " 
No more that heart in love doth bound, 
Its blood, with dew, bedecks the ground, 
The dirgely knell doth still resound, 

Says whippowil, whippowiL 

While far away a maiden sleeps, 

But in her dreams she sobs and weeps, 

Until with tears her pillow steeps, 

And her heart doth throb and thrill; 
She hears the musket crack, in dreams, 
As she, waking, starts and screams, 
And as her heart in sadness weens, 

Comes whippowil, whippowil. 

Again, one sad and lonely evening, 
The frightful dream its impress leaving, 
Nor the tide of time retrieving, 

Still her heart 's with anguish fill'd, 
A letter comes, all draped in black, 
Says, " Oh ! I heard the musket crack ; 



102 

I felt he'd never more come back; 
And that lonely whippowil ! " 

'Tis thus to hearts each other given, 
That when the tender cord is riven. 
They feel the stroke thro' dreams and heaven, 

And the lonely whippowil. 
Their sadful song which doth impart 
The language of the lonely heart, 
So like our songs of human art, 

Sad and lonely whippowil ! 



HAUNTING THOUGHTS OF THE DEATH OF A, C. 
ALEXANDER, OF CO, H, 

KILLED AT FORT m'ALLISTER, GEORGIA. 

At McAllister's storming charge and strife, 
Where blood and battle red ran rife, 
Was ebbing then the tide of life, 

'Mid battle's flashes gleaming ; 
And death then rode his pale white horse 
O'er many a mangled, bleeding corse, 
"Without the pang of dread remorse, 

And flags and blood were streaming. 

While echoed yet the battle's sound, 
Through the romantic welkin's round, 



103 



And on parapet, and ditch, and ground, 

"Were heroes dead and dying; 
"Were ? mong the wounded and the slain, 
Had limbs and trunks been rent in twain, 
Two soldiers with the stretchers came, 
? Mong dead and wounded lying. 

Poor u Curt, 7 ' we fain would drop a tear, 

Over thy noble soldier's bier, 

For yet we feel thou might st been here 

If thus we had not said : 
" Go, carry off some other one," 
From mangled bodies blood doth run, 
" We'd rather rest, be let alone, 

It's only in the leg." 

Insisting still, we then said, " Go, 
Go quick, my boy, do not be slow." 
Then little did we think or know 

That he went his death to meet. 
Alas ! torpedoes filFd the ground, 
Just buried "neath the view all 'round. 
A moment more we heard the sound — 

One burst beneath his feet. 

His legs were broken, bleeding, torn, 
On the self same stretcher he was borne, 
A sight to us so sad, forlorn, 



104 



Added to augmented woe. 
That lornful thought doth still remain, 
For to forget can never fain, 
Anon it comes again, again, 

If we had not then said " Go." 

That heartfelt thought, it lingers yet, 
Kor dare, nor fain the scene forget, 
Such fates the soldier's path beset, 

? S the only thought relieving ; 
Though yet we think, we feel, we know, 
'Twas nature's impulse ordered " Go," 
Though prompted thus by other's woe, 

Proves but a sad retrieving. 

Forgive, dear parents, his sad fate, 
Though now repentance is too late, 
The well-meant order, but mistake, 

If mistake it was, to " Go ; " 
His soldier's path with demon's snare, 
Could not thus teach his feet beware, 
To shun destruction hidden there ; 

'Twas fate, perhaps, said so, 

The order comes to forward now, 
True soldiers to the orders bow, 
Though death 's depicted on the brow ; 
He marches forward, straight ; 



105 



'Tis fate that prompts the order given, 
From circumstances then deriven, 
Though life or limb by fate be riven, 
He goes and bows to fate. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF SAMUEL CROOKS, 

Banner bearer of the 54th 0. V. V. I., who was killed at 
Fort M'AUister, Georgia. 

"When battle's din did rend the air, 

And scythes of death were mowing there, 

Their ready harvest to prepare, 

He death and danger brook' d, 
'Mid blazing, belching cannon's roar, 
Nor faltered he at death nor gore, 
But our banner forward proudly bore, 

Heroic Samuel Crooks. 

With unblanched brow, his eye was set 
Upon the frowning parapet ; 
With firm, heroic, stately step, 

He the veteran he looked. 
Through torpedoes, abattis, ditch, 
His proud form scap'd the narrow niche, 
Where shafts of death did plunge and pitch, 

Brave banner bearer Crooks. 
10 



106 



But as he scaled the frowning wall, 
O'er sore obtructions, ditch and all, 
Did th' veteran and his colors fall, 

Nor yet the flag forsook ; 
But tho' he fell, his hands did hold 
The sacred staff', and riddl'd folds — 
"Was e'en in death so brave and bold, 

Heroic Samuel Crooks. 

A moment more our flag did stand, 
The first, for victory's stern command. 
By an almost cruel, fiendly hand, 

From dying hands he took. 
From dying limbs the flag was torn, 
The swaddling folds so proudly borne. 
To die without this boon, forlorn, 

Brave banner bearer Crooks, 

Oh ! cruel fate, how hard thou art, 

For e'en the hero's noble part 

Must plead in vain, his bleeding heart 

Yet he smiled and upward look'd 
To see the crimson'd colors wave, 
His country's freedom thus to save, 
Tho' he felt it would be o'er his grave 

Heroic Samuel Crooks. 

No more with comrades in the camp, 
Nor on the march's heavy tramp, 



107 



Nor with young playmates on the banks 

Of his native hills or brooks ; 
Those feet, when young, in boyish pranks, 
No more shall step in living ranks, 
But wade the waves of Jordan's damps, 

In th' grave, brave Samuel Crooks, 

Beneath the mourning cypress bough, 

And the waving live-oak now, 

He proves his faith to freedom's vow, 

In the quiet lowland nook ; 
"Within the river's flexing fold, 
Where time and tide together roll, 
The body of the hero, bold, 

Lies banner bearer Crooks. 

Between the river and the sea, 
Beneath the green palmetto tree, 
His spirit now from nature free, 

No more to read her book. 
'Tis thus by cruel fate decreed, 
That bravest hearts for freedom bleed, 
No more the daring charge to lead, 

Heroic Samuel Crooks. 



108 



THE GHOST OF CHICKAMAUGA, 

A PARODY ON POE's POEM OF THE RAVEN. 

We were weak, and worn, and weary, 

Down in darkness, dim and dreary, 

Laid the limbs of freedom's legions, 

"With marches tired, stiff and sore ; 

On Chickamauga's bloody ground, 

"Where quick and dead were strewn around, 

And midnight silence then profound, 

In deathly stillness brooded o'er ; 

Some to rest in slumbers sweet, 

And some to dream, and some to snore, 

Perchance to dream, ah ! nevermore. 

'Gainst a giant oak reclining, 
On his feet our head divining, 
Fancy forming frightful figures, 
That betimes went floating o'er; 
Beneath the burly, branching oak, 
Where naught the awful stillness broke, 
Of rippling rill, nor raven's croak, 
Nor of the distant battle's roar, 
Among the graves of fallen warriors, 
Those who had fallen long before, 
Fallen to rise, ah ! nevermore. 



109 



Down, down among dissolving dead, 
'Mong many a sunken heart and head, 
"Where once the tide of life ran red, 
"Where once the ground had drank the gore, 
There was lying, musing, thinking, 
While many mouths the dews were drinking, 
We too went in fancy, linking 
Those freaks fantastic as of yore, 
Musing, thinking on the horrors 
That we were wont then to deplore ; 
A voice then echoed nevermore ! 

Then and there we had a vision 

We dare not treat with vain derision, 

As both from visions and of dreams 

We too have learned a living lore : 

As we waked, and mused or dream' d, 

Like life, in deathly silence seem'd 

A ghost ! with burning eyes that beam'd * 

Beneath a brow of blood and gore, 

Came walking, stalking thro' th' darkness, 

And he stood right up before, 

With shaking head said, nevermore ! 

As we lay there musing, thinking, 
Each other eyeing, without winking ; 
Our soul, tho' sinking, tasted, drinking 
From mother muse's cup of yore 



110 



And then the trembling, sinking soul, 
From Goddess nectars drinking bold, 
Like rnythologic gods of old, 
Grew strong to mysteries explore ; 
"We then resolv'd, what ere beside 
Should us betide, thus to explore, 
"What he thus meant by nevermore. 

Then the goblin thus addressing, 

Partly knowing, feeling, guessing, 

"What he meant by thus expressing, 

With shaking head and nevermore : 

Art thou a wandering, rebel ghost, 

Just from the traitor fallen host, 

Whose soul through hatred fell, was lost, 

All stain'd with blood, begrimm'd with gore, 

Come up to tell us of the lost, 

From Pandemonium's thund'ring shore? 

With nodding head, said, evermore ! 

And wast thou too a wicked fool, 
Whom Satan made a willing tool, 
By training in his hell-born school, 
The god of slavery to adore ? 
Trained to prejudice and knavery, 
In the cursed school of slavery, 
Beguiled to think it was true bravery, 
Thus for the curse thy blood to pour, 



Ill 



Say, wast thou one of slavery's minions, 
Who fell, through hate, to rise no more 
Said, "Fallen, fallen, evermore! " 

Didst thou fight for foulsome treason, 

Blind to justice and to reason ; 

Was born and bred thus by the curse ? 

Such monstrous demons once she bore, 

Beelzebub, thy ruling master, 

Led thee to deserved disaster, 

Which follow' d thick and fast, and faster, 

Until thou fell to rise no more ; 

And dirges of thy fallen hopes, 

This melancholy burden bore, 

Of evermore and nevermore ! 

And while the awful goblin stood, 

In grim, ungainly, ghastly mood, 

With eyes that seem'd with shotted blood, 

To burn into my bosom's core, 

Suddenly there came a roaring 

Noise, the ghost seem'd not ignoring, 

While clammy sweat was oozing, pouring, 

Pouring forth from every pore ; 

In the dense and dismal darkness 

It seem'd like distant battle's roar, 

And the ghost said, nevermore ! 



112 



And as the distant thunders rolled, 
Which filPd and thrill' d my sinking soul 
"With fantastic, frightful terrors, 
aSTever so felt or feared before ; 
Suddenly augmented thunder, 
Like the world's great seventh wonder, 
Seem'd to shake the earth in, under, 
Like the volcanic rupture's roar, 
This grim, ungainly, gory ghost, 
With burning eyeballs did deplore, 
With shaking head said, nevermore ! 

And hast thou too for lucre sold 
Thy kindred blood for glittering gold ? 
!No wonder that thy sordid soul 
Forever should thy sins deplore ; 
Iso wonder that thy soul should swell 
With all the fuming flames of hell, 
For thine own children thou didst sell 
For filthy lucre's stock and store. 
Is ever can you hope for heaven, 
Ivor dare His mercy to implore, 
Said, nevermore, ah, nevermore ! 

Thou spilt for slavery freedom's blood, 
And guilty of the kindred flood, 
Thy burning hand, and head, and heart 
Are stained and stung with clotted gore ; 



113 

And when eternity grows old, 
Still shall thy fiery eyeballs roll, 
"With gory guilt thy sinking soul 
Shall sink and sink, to rise no more , 
'Mong the boiling, burning billows, 
"Where Pandemonium's thunders roar, 
Shall sink and sink forevermore. 

Thou who of slavery made thy god, 
And worship' d at his bidding nod, 
Shall ever feel the wreaking rod, 
Thou wrought thyself to then adore ; 
Thou fallen monster of the dead, 
Who freedom's blood for slavery shed, 
And for the curse thyself hath bled, 
Slave to the God thy blood to pour ; 
Now get thee thence and leave me hence, 
For tophet, whence thou came before, 
Nor come with haunting evermore. 

Now leave me, most infernal ghost, 
Thro' love of lust and lucre lost; 
Get thee back into the darkness, 
Within old tophet's burning shore. 
Then he slowly from me turning, 
Half obeying, partly spurning, 
With fury's fires blazing, burning; 
With horrid hate seem'd running o'er, 



114 



Maddened then because we drove him 
From standing thus right up before, 
With horrid hate, foreverrnore ! 

Then the trembling, thrilling thunders 
Eoll'd sublime in epic numbers ; 
Like the music of the demons, 
"Whose notes in gloomy grandeur pour ; 
And as if to make resistance, 
Seenrd to summon hell's assistance, 
Which now rolTd at shorter distance, 
With all the earthquake's wracking war. 
Leave me quickly, horrid monster, 
ZSor ever dare to haunt me more. 
Then the ghost said, " Nevermore ! " 

Then the heavy air grew denser. 
Perfumed from the burning censor, 
Heaving high from horrid tophet, 
From burning billows boiling o'er, 
Still the horrid scene enhancing, 
As ten thousand demons dancing, 
Were receding and advancing, 
The forest sward their dancing floor, 
From Cery eyes shot forth fury. 
From torments awful which they bore, 
And the ghost said, u Nevermore ! H 



115 



Next the Devil, god of traitors, 
Issued from the burning crater, 
With huge and hoary, horrid hight, 
And horrid horns, to goad or gore ; 
And high above the Rebel ring, 
ITp-loom'd the the traitor Rebel king, 
With raven-dyed, expanded wing, 
And eyes ! that did the darkness pore. 
Then with ail his hellish hatred, 
Thundered forth his lying lore, 
Of " Union, never, nevermore." 

Quick to their haunts the demons went, 
By the old arch fiend seeming sent, 
Who for his minions on the earth 
Did treason's thunders still outpour, 
And still with Rebel hatred foul, 
He uttered forth his hounded howl, 
'Gainst freedom, too, a grumbling growl, 
Till all their songs one burden bore, 
The dirges of their fallen hopes, 
This melancholy burden bore, 
Of "Nigger, nigger, evermore/' 



116 



THE ANGEL OF THE DEPOT, OR WHAT CAME OF 
A KISS. 

A true legend of life and love in the late war. 

INTRODUCTION AND NARRATIVE. 

When clouds of rebellion the zenith o'ercast, 

Begloom'd the political sky, 
And the lowering pall of dark ages past 

Seem'd again to hover on high ; 
It seem'd like the pall of a national shroud, 
And the prating of treason was vauntingly proud, 

A barbarous relic Columbia had curs'd, 
The eagle had borne from his birth, 

Then sailed among storm-clouds ready to burst, 
Threat' ning floods of blood to the earth ; 

The barbarous sequence of ignorance of old, 

'Gainst the segis of freedom their thunderings 
roll'd. 

When Freedom was marsh'ling her forces to save 

Her barque from the blood-crimson'd wave, 
That the hopes of mankind by the curse of the 
slave, 

Be not buried in th' gloom of the grave ; 
And storms like the whirlwind were gathering 
o'er, 

And th' threat'ning thunders of battle did roar, 



117 



A regiment had filed into a Western depot, 

Awaiting the train soon to start; 
Then the train backing in, the whistle did blow, 

Sent a thrill through friends then to part. 
The train was to bear them from friends far away, 
" To armies confronting in deadly array." 

The whistle impatiently bid them depart ; 

There were sobs, and blessings, and tears, 
There was wringing of hands and wringing of 
hearts, 

For parting and anguish of fears ; 
The parting of wife from husband or brother, 
From father or sister, or lover or mother. 

A youth, Corporal Walter Evermond, stood 

Aloof, on his musket he leaned ; 
A seeming spectator in sad, thoughtful mood, 

Surveying the heart-rending scene. 
No father, or mother, or sister he had, 
Or brother or lover to make him feel sad. 

f 

Thus spake the hero, but a tear fill'd his eye : 
"I am glad I have no one to mourn; 

Oh ! how hard it would be to bid them good-by, 
And from their embrace be torn ; 

And yet, oh ! how happy, I envy the bliss, 

To bear to the army just one parting kiss." 



118 



" I 'Il/kiss you, if you'll let me," one said with a 
smile, 

And he felt her hand on his arm. 
He turned, and his heart with throbbing most 
wild 

"Was filPd, and thrill'd with the charm. 
" ! thank you, dear Miss, if I dare so to speak," 
And the tear o'er the kiss then rolPd down his 
cheek. 

"Bless you, dear Sir," with a voice sweetly hush'd 

Said the angel with transcendent grace. 
Amid tears and smiles, and the maid's modest 
blush, 

He look'd in her angelic face. 
With an electrical thrill he press'd her sweet 
hand, 

When "Fall in, fall in," came the cruel command. 

The parting then over, the friends slowly turned 
In sadness their steps toward home ; 

Each heart its own sorrow of sadness then learned, 
Felt its lot so lornful and lone. 

The angel of the depot homeward then hied, 

As a cowardly lover walk'd by her side. 

" Nellie Preston, I am astonished at you," 
John Gainsford to Nellie then said. 



119 



" Ah ! astonished, indeed ! why, what did I do ?" 

With an archly toss of her head. 
" "What did you think of, my lib'ral young Miss, 
There in the depot that fellow to kiss ?" 

" I thought, 5 ' said Nellie, " he might be a boy 

Without e'en mother or sister. 
So it seems it does your feelings annoy ; 

Never mind, my jealous young mister ; 
O, I can get into my carriage myself; 
Never mind, my jealous young cowardly elf." 

Two days of sadness had draggingly past, 
For Nellie had parted with " brother." 

The gloom of the loneness the fam'ly o'ercast, 
Thus added to insult of lover . 

Judge Preston's only son a captain had went, 

Their course in the cars to the conflict now bent. 

Judge Preston then call'd his daughter to his side, 

And thoughtfully, soberly said : 
"Have you made up your mind to soon be a 
bride, 

Your life to John Gainsford's to wed ? " 
" I have made up my mind to not be his wife, 
Dear father," she said, " not for money or life, 

I never did him love," she said, with a smile, 
"And I would not wed him for life." 



120 



Said the judge: "I approve your decision, dear 
child, 

'Tis the end, not beginning of strife ; 
I am free to confess it pleases my mind, 
Since to his sister he's ungentle, unkind." 

THE YOUNG HERO'S THOUGHTS AS HE GOES TO THE 
FRONT. 

The train had roll'd far out of sight, 
Her freight for freedom sought the fight ; 
Ere many roods the rollers roll'd, 
An image thrill' d young Walter's soul, 
An image, like the knights of old, 
Was near his heart to make him bold ; 
The angel of the depot smiled, 
The soldier's woes with joy beguiled. 

He then resolved, whate'er beside 
His soldier life should e'er betide, 
That parting kiss he'd ne'er disgrace, 
Nor bring a blush to that sweet face ; 
The kiss which flush'd his burning cheek 
Should for the donor honor seek, 
E'en though the daughter of a king, 
The kiss should ne'er its donor sting. 

Thus to the wars the soldier goes, 
And dreaming e'en before his foes, 



121 



The image looms before his mind, 
He tights for her he leaves behind ; 
And through the battle's bloody strife 
He thinks of honor more than life; 
To high resolves the fancy leads 
" To dare and do in noble deeds." 

In freedom's " coat of mail " bedight, 
Thus like the olden feudal knight, 
He wages war and bravely fights 
For womanhood and manhood's rights ; 
While^Justice whets his wreaking steel, 
Before the image meekly kneels 
The warrior, who so ^sweetly feels, 
Freedom's goddess, his soldier shield. 

Thus to the wars the warriors go, 
Cheer'd by the image, meet the foe, 
For freedom strike the fatal blow, 
Nor deign nor dare to feel the woe 
Of victims 'neath his steel had bent, 
Or by the leaden Minnie sent ; 
Humanity he casts aside, 
"While ebbs and flows the crimson tide." 

And high above the weaker feeling, 

The hero to his image kneeling, 

Then steels his heart by bravery's mail, 

Nor deigns to feel the weakling's wail, 
11 



122 



But feels that for her own dear sake 
He'd scorn the faggots of the stake, 
Or wade the floods of blood and fire, 
To gratify her heart's desire. 

And as the mystic image leads, 
E'en 'gainst the foaming, fiery steeds, 
Whose necks are clothed with wreaking thun- 
der, 

Nor heeds the corses crushing under, 
But charges through the crimson wave, 
"Where fiery hoofs the Sowings lave, 
Nor stops until the tide doth turn, 
And vanquished Eebs his prowess learn. 

Thus to the wars young Walter went, 
By freedom's goddess bless'd and sent ; 
Not alone his cheek, his soul now burning, 
Heroic heat, with glory yearning, 
Now fills the hero's swelling soul, 
To burst the bans of mortal mold, 
An immortal flame to burn below, 
Lit by the angel of the depot. 

NELLIE AND HER FATHER AT HOME WITH GOOD NEWS. 

Ere many months had roll'd around, 
Of weary nights and slothful days, 
Faint echoes of the battle's sound, 



123 



Re-echoed from the bloody frays ; 
The maiden in her midnight dreams, 

In visions saw, and felt, and heard 
The lowering pall, the dazzling gleams 

Of thundering war, her heart bestirr'd. 

A fair young corporal always stood, 

And in her fancy braved the storm 
Of leaden hail and crimsoned flood, 

Which flowed around her hero warm. 
That fatal kiss her heart had stolen, 

The hero had borne it far away ; 
Her sodden breast with sighs was swollen, 

Her seething heart had gone astray. 

One sad evening, while " brother " claim'd 

A sister's love and hopeful thought, 
Her father with the paper came ; 

" Good news," he said, " the columns bro't." 
Then bending o'er the trembling sheet, 

With heaving breast and throbbing head, 
With trembling voice, but accents sweet, 

The thrilling news she haply read. 

" Captain Preston for four long hours 

Was exposed to a furious fire ; 
Firmly he stood with heroic power, 

Which even his foes did admire ; 



124 

At last he was driven to the river, 
' Driven down the bank at Ball's Bluff.' " 

Here nerves and the paper did quiver, 
Such news to her nerves was enough. 

" Where comrades had fallen with wounds, 

Was trying to relieve of their woe, 
His fate seem'd seal'd and already doom'd, 

Was surrounded from hope by the foe. 
A sergeant (by recent promotion) 

Then sprang to his captain's assistance, 
And with his heroic devotion 

Soon quieted Rebel resistance. 

" Three Rebels then soon ' bit the dust,' 

By the sergeant's young heroic hand, 
Who with revolver and heroic trust 

Laid them bleeding in death in the sand ; 
Then help'd his captain over the stream. 

Who just had received a deep wound, 
Swimming, he held revolver between, 

Threat'ning others with similar doom. 

" Safely they reach'd the opposite^shore, 
The captain, though bleeding and weak, 

With wound in his arm, painful and sore, 
Though not fatal," the paper did speak. 

" Heaven bless the sergeant," Nellie then said ; 
" God bless him," the father replies ; 



/ 



125 



" May heaven's blessings crown his dear head/ 5 
They both said with tears in their eyes. 

Then, in the night, a curious thought 

Came creeping into Nellie's mind ; 
With such strange freaks our nature 's fraught, 

Love's mystic life of all mankind ; 
She wished the sergeant was a corporal, 

As yet the truth she had not learned, 
And as our angel was yet mortal, 

The kiss had lit a flame which burned. 

And then she wondered how he did, 

That manly, fair-faced, bright-eyed boy, 
Till sleep had closed the languid lids, 

And then she dream'd of love and joy. 
Ere long from George a letter came— 

Told of the battle's bloody strife : 
" A sergeant (Evermond by name), 

His own had risk'd, to save his life. 

"And but for him you'd have no son, 

And Nellie would have no brother ; 
Eor ere the bloody work was done, 

He piled three Eebs upon each other." 
Confirming what the paper told 

About his friend, and even more, 
Who plunged into the stream so bold, 

Had borne him safely to the shore. 



126 



AT THE FRONT — JOKES AND SENTIMENT. 

Both the friends received promotion, 
As winter months did wear away, 
"Which sometimes doth in part repay 

Such noble daring, devotion. 

The captain was a major then, 
And the sergeant was a captain, 
And many jokes between them cracken, 

Served pastime pleasure for the friends. 

"How is your angel ?" the major said, 
One evening by the camp fires bright, 
"And did you dream again last night? " 

But the captain, sighing, dropp'd his head. 

Then did the joker half deride; 

Said, " Does her image lead you still, 
A willing captive at her will ? " 

Again he dropp'd his head and sighed. 

The subject was too near his heart 
To lightly treat with bandi'd joke, 
Or parry off the playful stroke, 

In jesting art to play his part. 



127 



Thus the unsuspecting brother, 

Not knowing, cracks his waggish jokes, 
While at his friend the puns he pokes 

About his sister and her lover. 

The serious captain then replied : 
u Well, major, if your passion's sated 
By waggish fancy thus created, 

And if you will not thus deride, 

" Til tell you of my mystic life, 
Nor deign nor dare to hide the truth, 
The fire which makes heroic youth 

To stand amid the bloody strife. 

" That thrilling touch of hand and cheek, 
Like lightning throbs my inmost heart, 
Whose strings still play the mystic part, 

By angel fingers touch'd so sweet. 

" And tho' but once I saw her face, 
A glimpse and touch of form and soul, 
'Twas more she seem'd than mortal mold, 

Angelic beauty, love and grace. 

" Her image doth before me stand, 
And hath through many dangers led, 
My cold and hunger warmed and fed, 

Or beckoned with assuring hand. 



128 



" This cheering light has led me through, 

All that I am to her is due, 

Of honor, truth and valor too, 
Which makes me strong to 6 dare and do.' " 

HOME AGAIN 

The friends of home, with anxious care, 
Through tedious nights and weary days, 

Again were filled, for tidings came 
Of other hard-fought, bloody frays, 

Torktown, Williamsburg and Fair Oaks 
Were fought, and many heroes fell ; 

The lists of killed and wounded lagg'd, 
Delayed the nervous news to tell. 

At length a letter came from George, 

Was badly wounded, but his life 
Again was spared, for other fields? 

To combat in the bloody strife. 

" Our colonel was stricken down," he wrote, 
"When first the bloody fray commenced, 

At Fair Oak's field I took command, 

And charged the foe to drive him thence. 

"Was following Howard's gallant lead, 

When a Minnie ball pass'd through my thigh, 



129 



I then grew dizzy, weak and faint, 
As Captain Evermond just pass'd by. 

u Had only time th' command to turn 
(As onward to the front he dashed), 

Into his hands, our noble regiment, 
"When came the final charge and clash. 

" Amid the gallant charge and strife, 
Our brave young captain took command, 

And like heroic veterans led, 

His honors held with steady hand." 

THE CHARGE. 

" Then on and on he charged and press'd, 
"With flaming line, the melting foe ; 

And many a Rebel's haughty crest 
Did fall beneath his fatal blow. 

" Inspired by his noble bearing, 

The heroic spirit by him fired, 
His men in ' deeds of noble daring/ 

In prowess vied, while foes retired. 

" And on they charged, thro 5 grape and shell, 

]S~or heedful of their lessened number, 

While through the warring welkins swell'd 

The music of the battle's thunder. • 
12 



ISO 



" Then roll'd the wave, lite wars of old, 

Over the corses of the slain ; 
Like epic numbers grandly roll'd, 

The battle's din, athwart the plain, 

" Hor heedful of the crimson'd wave, 
Kor of the cannon's flaming flash, 

Is or of the fallen, bleeding brave, 
But forward, onward still they dash'd. 

"Through storms of lead and iron hail, 
And howling missiles through the air, 

Freedom's prowess again prevail' d, 
Her prestige press' d, and held it there. 

" The conflict then was hand to hand 
Over a battery which was taken. 

I saw our colors proudly stand 
Over the guns by Eebs forsaken. 

u As I was borne from off the field, 
I heard the shout of victory swell, 

The battle won by Freedom's zeal, 
Was led by Captain "Walter well. 

" Then to our quarters, late at night, 
Our young hero was bleeding brought, 

With wounds received while in the light, 
With trophies, too, which bravery bought." 



131 



Again the slowly dragging time 

Of days and nights, through anxious weeks, 
Steals by before the thrilling line 

The letter's destination seeks. 

At last it comes, and brings the joy : 
" Dear Nellie, I am coming home, 

On furlough, soon, for forty days, 
To cheer the household long so lone. 

" The captain with me ? s coming too, 
For both our wounds are doing well." 

'Twas then a thrilling thought flash'd through 
Her mind, and did her bosom swell. 

It came and went, and came and went, 
And haunted her in midnight dreams; 

She knew full well what feelings meant, 
And yet her doubts still intervened. 

Again she wish'd he was a corporal ; 

And then she felt it was him still ; 
Hope and fear, the lot of mortals, 

Her heaving heart did throb and thrill. 

The journey home was long and sore; 

Our wounded heroes stood it well; 
"Were going to their homes once more, 

Where love and friendship happ'ly dwell. 



132 



THE MAJOR'S ARRIVAL. 

At three o'clock arrived the train, 
And Major Preston hobbling came 
Upon his crutches from the cars, 
" The wounded warrior from the wars." 
The old judge went with joy to meet him, 
And with open arms to greet him ; 
But ere he meets his son, he hears 
The echoes of the rousing cheers, 
"Which swelling, start the big proud tears ; 
Proud, swelling tears of love and joy, 
For his own noble, gallant boy. 

Poor Nellie, she had not come down, 

Although the carriage came from town. 

" Where is your friend?" the judge then said. 

"Here's the carriage; come, come up, Ned." 

" 0, he'll be with us yet to-day : 

Stopp'd with a friend upon the way; 

He's coming in the evening train— 

The carriage must come down again." 

Thus did the conversation run 

Between the father and the son. 

NELLIE AND HER BROTHER. 

A joyful moment Nellie had, 
No longer now with feelings sad ; 



133 



She threw her arms around his neck, 
Nor cared her sister's love to check ; 
To brother gave a sister's kiss, 
And joyful in fraternal bliss. 
She knew how well she loved him then, 
And kiss'd o'er and o'er again. 
Then many questions she did ask 
About the wars and thrilling past. 

But first she asked, " How is your friend 
"Who nobly did your life defend ? 
The captain — I hope he's not old, 
Nor ugly, for he 's brave and bold, 
And I do want to love him too, 
Because he risk'd his life for you. 
His heart must be so kind and true, 
And soul so great ' to dare and do/ " 
Thus the sister asked her brother, 
First about her unknown lover. 

" Not old," he said then, as he smiled, 
" Nor ugly either, is he styled ; 
But a curious circumstance 
Of soldier life, which does enhance 
The interest of his history — 
With swelling tears he told it me — 
For after the Ball's Bluff affair, 
We did, like brothers, secrets share. 



134 



He is without a father, mother, 
An orphan, without sister, brother. 
At six o'clock he will be here, 
And make acquaintance, Nellie, dear. 

"He has a splendid education, 

Fitting him for any station. 

By an old aunt he was thus blessed, 

Who train' d him for the sacred desk. 

His mind did not then lead that way, 

And he, like others, went astray. 

He then commenced to study law, 

But the old lady pick'd a flaw, 

Turn'd plaintiff, and withdrew her favor, 

At what she thought such sad behavior. 

" And then he thought he would enlist, 

His bleeding country to assist ; 

Enlisted in my company, 

A private then, so bold and free. 

While we waited in the depot, 

Ere we did start to face the foe ; 

Aloof from all the rest he stood, 

With sad and thoughtful mind and mood, 

And gazed upon the heartfelt scene, 

Of weeping, blessing friends, it seems. 

" And then this thought pass'd thro' his brain, 
That he was spared from all the pain 



135 



Of parting ; but with tearful eye 
He said aloud, with heaving sigh, 
6 And yet I envy the sweet bliss 
Just to bear front one parting kiss.' 
Then in a moment a young girl 
Did set his feelings all awhirl. 
She came and kiss'd him on the cheek, 
And tears of joy did make him weep. 

" Had hardly time to press her hand — 
4 Fall in, fall in, ? came the cammand. 
That girl did do a glorious deed, 
An act so kind in time of need. 
He says the mem'ry of that face 
And kiss has made him win the race 
Of honor in the battle-field, 
Which like a guardian angel's shield, 
To high resolves his soul did lead, 
6 To dare and do in noble deeds. 9 

" Within himself that he had sworn, 

While on the cars toward battle borne, 

The confidence in that sweet face 

Should ne'er with blushes meet disgrace 

Because she volunteer'd the kiss, 

And turn'd his sadness into bliss ; 

That kiss which fiush'd young manhood's cheek 

Should for the donor honor seek; 



186 



E'en though the daughter of a king, 
The kiss should ne'er its victim sting." 

nellie's feelings confiemeb. 

" You said he was a private then ? 99 
As turning pale, she asked again. 
" 0, no, he was a corporal then, 
The noblest of my noble men. 
Yes, first a private he was, true, 
Then a corporal, with stripes of two — 
He was promoted then, you see, 
And next he wore the stripes of three ; 
But, mercy, dear, why look so pale ? 
I thought to cheer you by the tale ! 99 

66 Oh ! me — what dreadful, thrilling things ! 

Yet happy news which brother brings," 

She, whispering, said ; nor did he know 

"What made her color come and go — 

First like the lily, white as snow, 

Then blushing like rose's blow. 

Her heaving breast and throbbing heart, 

She hid with all a woman's art, 

]STor once he thought nor dream'd the bliss, 

'Twas her who gave the angel's kiss. 



137 



Walter's arrival and Nellie's feelings. 

The sun had sank into the west, 

And golden tintings capp'd the crest 

Of foliage on the distant hills, 

Beyond the town and old brown mills, 

Which nestling by the rippling rills, 

The flowing horn of plenty fills. 

The husbandman no longer tills, 

Goes homeward from the field he drills ; 

For now the balmy dew distills, 

'Mid sad, sweet song of whippowils. 

Hark ! hear the trembling, screaming shrills, 

The locomotive whistle thrills ; 

It swells, and fills, and thrills her heart 

And trembling frame in ev'ry part. 

'Twas six o'clock, and Nellie's heart 

Was panting like the hunted hart. 

Sped from the parlor to her room, 

She fear'd, and yet she lov'd, her doom. 

Twice she tried to tell her brother 

That he was her own true lover ; 

Twice her trembling feelings failed her. 

Rising, throbbing, heart-thumps quail' d her ; 

'Mid joy and fear she walk'd her room — 

The leaping heart now loved its doom. 



138 



What should she do, how should she meet him ? 

With what becoming language greet him ? 

Words of welcome she might utter, 

But her heart in such a flutter, 

JEt would not, could not then be still 

(This time it braves the woman's will). 

It will not, dare not now dissemble, 

Thrills at the thought, no longer single. 

Hark ! hear the door-bell, tingle, tingle ; 

Oh ! how her heart-strings tremble, tremble ! 

Before the door-bell ceased to ring, 
The captain's arm within a sling, 
In stepp'd, was welcomed by his friend 
On crutches, who then did attend. 
The old judge too had welcomed him, 
Before our hero had stepp'd in, 
For he had brought him from the cars, 
1 Our wounded hero from the wars/ 
And filial feelings had begun, 
Was welcom'd like another son. 

INTRODUCTION SCENE. 

But where was Nellie ? Th' bell was rung, 
The servant up the steps had sprung ; 
After the hart they went in quest, 
To bring her to the welcome guest. 



139 



At length she came, blushing, trembling, 
Throbbing, thrilling, yet dissembling. 
" Nellie, my sister/' George cried then ; 
"Walter Evermond, our dear friend." 
The captain, in his gayest mood, 
Stepped forward as she gazing stood 
With half extended hand — he stopp'd 
As quick as though he had been shot ! 

" Good angels, sir, Oh ! what is this? " 

He cries amid his frenzied bliss. 

" This your sister? my angel; Miss, 

Excuse me, do you mind that kiss? " 

She stifled then her heart-throbs wild, 

And put out both her hands and smiled. 

" Aha ! " cried George, his crutches thumped 

Upon the floor with many a bump* 

" She is your angel of the depot ; 

What strange things happen here below ! " 

" Ten thousand blessings on her head," 
The brave young captain, weeping, said. 
" Lady," said he, " you will excuse ; 
My left hand you will not refuse." 
Again the tear rolls down his cheek ; 
His lips the angel's now doth seek ; 
Her tears of joy do this time start, 
Come overflowing from the heart ; 



140 



Amid the smiles and tears of bliss, 
He now returns the long lent kiss ! 

" Goodness, mercy ! " exclaimed the judge, 

Who with amazement could not budge, 

Stood like a statue, with surprise, 

He scarcely could believe his eyes. 

" This the soldier you kiss'd, Nellie, 

In the depot ? come, now, tell me." 

Again the poor girl almost lost 

Her whirling mind, the question toss'd. 

She said, " Yes, sir," and smiled once more, 

" The captain and I have met before." 

THE EVENING'S ENJOYMENT. 

"When the flood of their feelings began then to 
ebb, 

"With the thumps of his crutch, the major then 
said, 

" I have it, I have it, and thus will arrange 
The programme of the meeting, so sudden and 
strange : 

" First, Nellie 's my sister, by the right of birth, 
And Walter '$ my brother, by gratitude's worth, 
So you two, then, shall be sister and brother." 
" Capital," said the judge, " and Til be the 
father. 



141 



" And now for enjoyment; come, lead to a seat 
Your sister, dear captain, have a tete-a-tete ; 
We will talk of the times that have 6 tried our 
souls/ 

And the hours of pleasure shall happily roll." 

Ah ! the present was a time that tried Nellie's 
soul ; 

But so blissful the trial, as sweet moments roll, 
That e'en late is the hour before they retire, 
So joyful were brothers, and sister, and sire. 

The father and Nellie retired to rest ; 
The wounds of the soldiers each other did dress ; 
The hands of the major could bandage and tie, 
The feet of the captain could wait on the thigh. 

" We're at home, dear Walter," the major then 
said, 

As the heroes together retired to bed ; 

" The happiest of times we'll have of it now, 

Ere the forty day's furlough expires, I trow." 

" I can not stop long with you," Walter then said, 
As drawing a sigh, he again dropp'd his head. 
" 0, ho ! " cried the major, u I see well enough ; 
I know human nature is made of such stuff*. 



142 



"I now read the sign by that blush on your 

face ; 

In the morning I'll help you to find a good place. 
Rest easy, dear captain, I bid you good-night, 
May your dreams be happy, and lovely, and 
bright." 

THE LOVELY MORNING. 

The brightest of mornings now lights up the 
world, 

The songsters of nature their warblings twirl, 
Thus training their tongues to the tune of the 
time, 

While welkins are warbling in sweet runic rhyme. 

The rivulet rippling in songs from the hills, 
Is rolling the ponderous wheels of the mills ; 
Thus filling the sack of the mill-going boy, 
Who whistles and dances his praises of joy. 

The damsel with milk-pail goes tripping along, 
Charming the plow-boy with pastoral song. 
Dewdrops are sparkling o'er farm-land and trees, 
And flowers are nodding to coming of bees. 

All nature is singing the glad round-de-lay 
Of praises to God for the glorious day. 



143 



Again to his tilling or drilling he hies, 
The husbandman, humming his hyran of the 
skies. 

The sweet, lovely morning, so glorious and bright, 
Is throbbing the pulses of love and delight. 
"With thanksgiving praises "the welkin doth 
ring " 

To Him who from chaos the morning did bring. 

'Tis love that lights up the life of the morning, 
Love sees the beauties of nature's adorning ; 
Yes, love lies longing on hymen's sweet altar, 
"We sing but the feelings of Uellie and Walter. 

A GOOD BOARDING- PLACE — THE SEQUEL. 

When breakfast was over, George led his sister, 
Into the library, and when he kiss'd her, 
They had a long talk, while she wept and she 
smiPd 

By turns, the moments so sweetly beguil'd. 

He came from the library into the hall, 
And talked with his father, who understood all ; 
Then met the captain, who was in the front room, 
"Friend Walter," then said he, " I'll tell you your 
doom ! 



144 



66 1 have found for you, sir, a good boarding place ; 
I pledg'd them my honor you'd never disgrace 
The house; to virtue you was honest and true, 
And that they never should be ashamed of you. 

" My sister's the hostess, my father's the host, 
And now your enjoyment I heartily toast." 
" Thank you, friend George; but then — will Nel- 
lie — will she " — 
" 0, ask her yourself, sir, you must not ask me." 

"But your father?" now comes another good 
pun; 

"He already looks upon you as a son." 

" I don't know," said Walter, " so strange it seems, 

Perhaps it is fancy, or only a dream ! " 

" Then wake up, my friend," came the next 

friendly joke, 
But Walter ere this time had fairly awoke 
To a hope, which th' fruits was to cheer him thro' 

life, 

The angel of th' depot became soon his wife. 

And now, my dear reader, our tale is all told, 
All about our angel, and hero so bold, 
And though it all sprang from a kiss, it is true ; 
We know that we're tired, and you may be, too. 



145 



HE BID FAREWELL TO HIS OWN RIGHT HAND. 

: In the series of battles before Nashville, of which 
Franklin was one, a young man from one of the Mich- 
igan batteries was wounded in the arm so severely that 
amputation was necessary. The surgeons administered 
chloroform. After recovering from its effects, he re- 
quested the nurse, who was standing by, to bring him 
his right hand. When it was placed before him, he 
broke forth in the following pathetic strain : ' My own 
poor right hand ! and must we part thus, never to meet 
again ? For twenty-three long years you have served 
me faithfully ; you have never failed me in the hour of 
danger ; you have been raised only in the cause of jus- 
tice and right, and you have never done a dishonorable 
act. But now your work is done. Farewell, my own 
right hand, farewell.' Overcome by emotion, he mo- 
tioned them to take it away." 

The din of arms had ceased to war, 
'Twas silent, and the angel Death, 

"With sable wings seem'd hovering o'er, 
And nature seem'd to hold her breath. 



And many, many souls then fled 
From corpses o'er the battle-field, 

Who for the Union fell and bled, 
For freedom faced the Rebel steel. 

ia 



146 



And many more on litters borne 

By comrades from the field of strife, 

"Whose limbs were broken, bleeding, torn, 
Were yielding up e'en half their life. 

'Mong many more, a bright young man, 
Who had for freedom faced the foe, 

Carried a bleeding arm and hand, 
And seeni'd oppressed with grief and woe. 

With chloroform, and scalpel knife, 
And saw, dead limbs from bodies brake ; 

Again he op'd his eyes to life, 

With trembling tears and lip he spake. 

" Bring hither, nurse, my poor torn hand." 

Then hearts, tho' braved by blood, did swell, 
As surgeons and attendants stand 

To hear him bid his hand farewell. 

" Farewell, farewell, my own right hand, 
And must we, must we now part thus ? 

How hard, how hard, life's shorter span, 
For thee to go before to dust. 

u For twenty-three bright spring-time years 
Of life thou served my wants so well ; 

Dispeller of my doubts and fears, 
Must go with mother earth to dwell ! 



147 



" My own defense for justice, right, 
Was ever raised for these alone ; 

How dark shall be life's evening, night, 
Since life's dependence now hath flown. 

" Nor yet for self, alone to give 

For liberty my right hand up ; 
How hard 'twill be thro' life to live, 

And drink this soldier's bitter cup. 

" "When danger thick and fast assail'd, 
Thou wert my quick and sure defense ; 

But now thy work is done — bewail'd 

Shall be thy dirge — to mourn thee hence." 

Then through his tears there came a smile, 
A joy to thrill the aching heart : 

" Dishonor ne'er that hand defiled ; 

Farewell, my own right hand, depart ! " 



VIEWS AND THOUGHTS ON THE TOP OF KEKESAW 
MOUNTAIN, GA., 

SHORTLY AFTER THE RETREAT OF THE REBELS. 

From Kenesaw's mountain top, giddy, we gazed 

On the foe's inglorious retreat ; 
Pressing his march through the dim distant ways 

"Which led o'er the plain from our feet. 



148 

Those grey, motley lines are the retreating foe, 
And those clouds the dust o'er his head ; 

On those well trodden ways from the mountain 
below, 9 
Away toward Atlanta they tread. 

But look at that glorious blue line, so grand, 

Which marches away to the right, 
The heroes of Union from Liberty's land, 

Most sublime and soul-thrilling sight. 

T'ward"that Rubicon river " the head columns 
stand, 

And when the Chattahoochee is past, 
That proud Gate City of the foe's haughty land, 
Atlanta, thy die will be cast. 

Then casting the eye round the horizon's rim, 

The ethereal circle did lie; 
The line of dark azure in distance so dim, 

Where earth seem'd to blend with the sky. 

Far away to the north the "Twin Sisters " lie, 

Sleeping in the horizon's rim, 
Their bosoms of earth heaving grandly and high, 

Those mountains in distance so dim. 

Far to the north-west Allegheny's proud range 
Of mountains loom up 'long the rim, 



149 

Three great links ending this grand mountain 
chain, 

In enchantment of distance so dim. 

jSText, "Old Lookout" doth rear his towering 
crest, 

With superior altitude high, 
G'erlooking the sleepers in pride from the west, 
As he peers from his point in the sky. 

Still further to the south, Lost mountain uplooms, 
Her breast heaving smoothly and high, 

But she seems in her loneness lost among tombs, 
And breathes in her sadness a sigh. 

Then east of Atlanta the mountain of Stone 
Rears his smooth and bald stony head, 
Which seems in its sadness a monument cone, 
Which nature hath rear'd for the dead ! 

That light line of mist through the blue distant 
haze, 

Marks th' bed of the Rubicon stream, 
Meandering, like Jordan, the dark deathly waves, 
Through sandhills and lowlands between. « 

Then thoughts came recurring to scenes that were 
past, 

Just closed here, in dramas of war, 



150 



Where in deadly array were armies en mass'd, 
The slumbers of mountains to mar. 

Here on the mountain top, thro' battle and siege, 

Stood the foe so haughty and high, 
While his lines on each flank, for nearly two 
leagues, 

Long weeks in resistance did lie. 

'Mid thunders of battle that roll'd round the 
mountain, 

And smoke that ascended on high, 
And sulphurous fumes forming aqueous fountains 

Of clouds that hung dark o'er the sky. 

Where daily and nightly the torrents of rain, 

By battle augmented, did pour, 
And mingled their floods with the blood of the 
slain, 

'!Neath heaven's artillery's roar. 

Where the bolts of the lightning of heaven did 
dash, 

'Mong clouds that were rent thus asunder, 
And wars thus electric in fury did flash, 
Did vie with artillery's thunder. 

And as peal upon peal of hoarse rolling thunders, 
With cannon did mingle their roaring, 



151 



So sublime and awful in grand epic numbers, 
Seem'd songs pantheistical pouring. 

Eound this thunder scarr'd brow of Kenesaw's 

summit, 
The missiles of freedom did fly, 
"While from black mouths of treason poured fiery 

vomit, 

Dooming heroes for freedom to die. 

Where the smoke of the battles rose up to the 
clouds, 

Which in grandeur sublimely did roll, 
And spread their dark curtains like rent, sable 
shrouds, 

O'er corses just yielding the soul. 

Where the blood which flowed freely for freedom 
did swell 

The rills that rolPd down from her side, 
While thunders of heaven and guns roll'd the 
knell, 

And blood with the flood roll'd the tide. 

? Mid rumbling, and roaring, and rushing, and rills 

And blood which like water did pour, 
Ran the red rolling tide from blood-crimsoned 
hills, 

All crimsoned and slipp'ry with gore. 



152 



Those hills round the base of the mountain were 
red 

With blood which for freedom did flow ; 
Where heroic souls from the now mouldering 
dead 

Came up from the battles below. 

Ye hills and ye mountains, now sacred to fame, 
By wars that have raged round your sides, 

And sacred, ye rills, from the patriot's name, 
Whose blood with your floods rolled the tides. 

All sacred, ye smooth-trodden swards of the 
plain, 

Where patriots fought, bled and fell ; 
And sacred, ye mouldering mounds of the slain, 
Where heroes breath' d earth their farewell ! 



A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF A FALLEN HERO. 

Adjutant Reece, of the 54th 0. V. V. I., was killed at 
Kenesaw Mountain, Georgia, on the 27th of June, 
1864. He was one of those rarely gifted sons of hu- 
manity who had a faculty of making friends of all, 
and of retaining their friendship, and increasing it to 
love. Honesty of purpose, charity, and firmness of 
disposition, with an affable and courteous, yet dignified, 



153 



deportment, with true bravery, all combined to make 
him one of those heroes who fell beloved by all. 

'Mong the thousands of heroes who fell in the 
war 

For the nation, now resting in peace ; 
'Mong the noblest and brightest — a young rising 
star — 

Was our brave young Adjutant Reece. 

Beneath frowning Kenesaw's old bloody brow, 

On her base so gory and red, 
'Mong thousands of martyrs for freedom did bow 

To treason his death-stricken head. 

Where a host of brave spirits for freedom did 
rise, 

Thro' storms that raged round the mountain, 
From the darkness of death to the light o'er the 
skies, 

To life round the glorious fountain. 

So brave yet gentle, and with firmness so kind, 
His sternness with love was beguiled, 

Magnanimous and true his intelligent mind, 
Came the order with power as he smiled. 

So upright and manly, confiding and true, 
Patriotic, and honest, and bold ; 
14 



154 



True heroism prompted his hand thus to do 
Daring deeds, that sprang from the soul. 

Liberty and virtue and God in the mind, 
Made him free, and fearless, and firm ; 

His soul for the woes of suffering mankind 
With glowing compassion did burn, 

Through thunders of battle and clouds in the sky, 

His heroic soul did arise, 
To join the bright army of heroes on high, 

From a world of tears and of sighs. 

Farewell, noble hero, thou gloriously fell, 
For freedom thou spilt thy warm blood, 
While thunders of battle and guns roll'd thy 
knell, 

Thy pure soul went up to thy God. 



THE BATTLE OF THE 15TH A. C, JULY 25, 1864, 
WEST OF ATLANTA, GA, 

We march'd 

^In the dim, greyish gloaming at breaking of day," 
Away from howling, crashing shells of thund'ring cannon 
In hot pursuit ; to confront in battle on the right — 
Bidding adieu to the green graves of dead comrades, 
Who fell fighting for freedom, only five days before. 



155 



Two leagues — from left to right — then march'd the veteran host, 

Away from the east to the west of Atlanta. 

The columns of freedom had march'd till noon of night, 

Then stretch' d the tired limbs on swards and slopes of hills, 

To seek in slumber rest — to nerve them for battle. 

All slept — the peaceful slumbers of Yet' ran warriors, 

But in their dreams they mused and thought of home and friends. 

Some slept the las: sleep, and dream' d the last dream of earth. 

In the dense and dismal darkness, like lowering clouds, 

Sank the mist, and smoke, and suiphur'us fumes of battle, 

Which days, and nights, and weeks had hung like a pail o'er 

The fields of the dead. 
The radiant stars bespangle not the darken'd sky, 
Nor doth the rayless moon peer thro" the gloomy pall 
Which hovers o'er the serried hosts of war in slumber — - 
And silence as of death, in Midnight's sable shroud, 
Envelops the hosts, like Hades — in deep darkness. 
>Tis like the silence which forebodes the coming storm, 
When nature hoards the strength of subtile elements, 
Until all the thunder forms, surcharg'd in heaven, 
Burst their floodgates — then pour forth their furious torrents 
Of hurricane, hail, flood, fire and wreaking thunder. 
Silence as of death reigned supreme through all the hosts, 
Save where the ghostly picket crouches and watches, 
And with painful eye tries to peer through the darkness, 
And lists, but hears naught save the throbs of his own heart. 

Hark! 

Hear the trembling notes of the clarion bugle horn, 

Thrilling in the distance, break the dead solitude. 

Another and another takes up the echo, 

Until the reveille heralds o'er the hill 

A harbinger which tells of the approaching morn. 

Then the drums — a thousand drums — roll the reveille, 



156 



While the screaming fifes are trilling the trembling ai». 

Up, and up, in the dusky darkness loom the "hordes;" 
Life, life looms up o'er the swards of a score of hills ; 
Human forms seem to rise from the bosom of earth ! 
And the hum of twice ten thousand human voices 
Next supplies the din of the thousand rolling drums. 
A camp-fire on the distant hill peers the darkness, 
Then another, and another, till a thousand 
Fires through the gloom bedeck, like stars, the murky sky. 
The soldier soon dispatches his scanty breakfast; 
The red streaks of morning illume the murky east, 
As the sanguine sun shows his fiery blood-red face. 
He the lowering clouds o'er Atlanta paints with blood. 
Again the serried columns are ready to march. 
"Forward," comes the order, and meandering they move, 
A long, dark, blue line, invincible for freedom, 
O'er the well-trodden swards, plains and slopes of the hills, 
Thence down ravines, thro' the thickets and the woodland, 
Up the steeps beyond — away to the extreme right. 
Like a great blue anaconda, draws his long length 
Round the west of the doom'd "Gate City of the South." 
He halts! and his burnish'd mail, impervious to treason. 
In sheen of liberty, shines in the Southern sun. 

Skirmishers 

Now begin to break the silence of the morning; 

Crack, crack, reverberate the rifles 'mong the hills, 

And whack, whack come the whizzing Minnie's 'mong the trees. 

A howling cannon ball tops a tree o'er our heads ; 

The fire of musketry becomes more onerous ; 

Anon we are ordered to support the skirmishers. 

The blazing sun now peers above the blood-red crest 

Of cloudg — floating high up toward the meridian. 

Stealthily, with steady step, we march thro 1 the thick wood, 

To the margin of the contested field beyond. 



157 



Now, with ranks deploy'd, we on double-quick advance 
Athwart the fiery field, where friends engage the foe. 
"The skirmish line ; ' and the fire of the fight are doubled 
Balls fiy thick and fast, and men now begin to fall; 
As the sun hides his face behind the crimson cloud, 
Come two — double lines — in very scorn of our fire, 
With flying flags and steady step, on, on they come, 
Square to the front, they bear the brunt of ball and battle, 
And come so near that we can hear their armor rattle. 
And now, "Fallback, fall back," comes the welcome order. 
Again the sun peers o'er the bloody-crested cloud, 
And back athwart the flaming field in haste we go ; 
And breathless join the awaiting line in the rear, 
Who, like lions, crouch behind a hasty breastwork, 
Awaiting with charg'd muskets the approaching foe. 
Now comes the awful suspense vhich precedes battle. 
'Tislike the nightmare's stillness which forebodes the storm. 
In all the horrors of bloody expectation ! 
When into minutes crowd the niem'ries of a life! 
On comes the furious foe, flaunting defiance, 
With their flags of treason, in our very faces. 
"Steady, boys, steady," hold your fire until he nears. 

But hark ! 

Half a league to the left the coming storm bursis forth 

And like the roaring, crashing, howling tornado, 

It sweeps from left to right, in most awful grandeur ; 

And sublimely flows the livid sheet of lightning 

From beneath the curling clouds and smoke of battle. 

The rolling, wreaking thunder shakes the very earth, 

While the crashing trees are split and torn asunder. 

The storm of leaden hail rattles among the bones 

Of vaunting traitors. The crimson flood begins to flow. 

<' Cease firing, cease firing," comes the unwelcome order; 

The thick smoke dissolves, and lo ! their line has melted. 



158 



That line of treason and slavery — should it not melt? 

The hell of battle at this point now tells the ear 

Of a vet more furious charge toward the left. 

At length the fire ceases — but the lull is brief. 

Hist ! hear the sound of human voices — hoarse, hideous 

Angry shouts — like demon voices — far to the front, 

Are rallying their fiendish hosts for another charge I 

Chagrin'd and angry chiefs are, like tigers, lashing 

With blasphemy, their hordes of whelps into fury. 

Anon' they come with all the hate of hell rankling 

With horrid rage in their slave-accursed bosoms. 

With doubled and trebled lines they come with vengeance! 

But with cooVd guns we await the shock in silence. 

And now upon the right bursts forth the wreaking storm. 

As lions from their lairs up-leap, and flash vengeance 

On the threatening foe, so do the sons of freedom 

Shoot forth the lightning flame from within the storm-cloud. 

From right to left now sweeps the angry battle storm — 

A shower of leaden hail is pour'd into the foe; 

Their cloven ranks are quickly filled, and on they come — 

Falling, filling, yet charging — on and on they come I 

Oh! 

Cl Horrors ! water, water, the guns are getting hot ! ,? 
Premature explosions are tearing off men's hands! 
The enemy's fire is dropping our men all around. 
Water is pour'd upon the charge in the seething barrels, 
And fired into the very face of the foe ! 
The pealing thunder of battle deafens the ear ; 
The hot flame and smoke almost blind and suffocate. 
"Fix bayonets! fix bayonets! they are upon us! 11 
But their serried ranks have well nigh melted away — 
The remnant of the forlorn hope come but to fall, 
Or surrender, or be pitched headlong o'er the line 
With the hot bayonet. * * * 



159 

Again and again, until the fifth time, they charge ; 

Goaded to desperation by continuous defeat, 

They seem to be impell ? d by the spirit of madness. 

Yes, " the gods have made them mad " for quick destruction. 

For four long hours the roar of battle, at some point, 

Continuous falls upon the stunn'd yet aching ear. 

At length sullen, with sunken hearts, they quit the field, 

But leaving the crimson'd ground strewn thick with the dead. 

Again the battle is fought and won by freedom . 

And the crimson'd capp'd crests of clouds in the west 

Give tokens of fair times to-morrow 
While sinking to rest with "the pall" o'er the breast, 

We have visions of joy and of sorrow 



ERRATA 



Page 9, line 11 from top, read muser, instead of "muses." 

Page 9, line 15 from top, read innature, instead of " of nature." 

Page 15, line 1 from top, read muser, instead of " muses." 

Page 22, line 14 trom top, read sounded the tocsin, instead of 
" sounded tocsin/ 

Page 25, line 9 from top, read worse, instead of u unwise." 

Page 31, line 10 from top, read are taught, instead of " our 
thoughts." 

Page 55, line 5 from top, read thouWt mourning, instead of 
" thou'st mourning. ' 

Page 60, line 24 from top, read received it first, instead of " re- 
ceived first." 

Page 68, line 11 from top, read blood were, instead of "blood 
was." 

Page 78, line 19 from top, read To help him, instead of 11 To 
him." 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



013 764 651 1 



